


Death's Other Playground

by riptheh



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, Angst, At one point, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Implied/Referenced Torture, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Pining, Politics, Propaganda, Rebellion, Romance, Thoschei, Touch Telepathy, Trauma, alcohol abuse in the sense the doctor gets drunk off of ginger beer to deal with her memories, and the master decides to be their puppet except maybe he isn't yes he is no he isn't, and use the doctor as their puppet to do so, basically the time lords take over the universe to prevent another time war from happening, bed sharing, canon AU, hmmm what else is there, it starts out missy/13 and ends up 13/dhawan, its all thoschei babey, lots of bed sharing and never talking about their feelings, slowburn, will update tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 88,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24079639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riptheh/pseuds/riptheh
Summary: Sometimes, even the best case scenario can be the worst possible situation.When the Moment came, the Doctor used it—and it worked. He saved the Time Lords, wiped out the Daleks, and ended the war.He also went through four regenerations at once, nearly died, and destroyed half the universe with it.This is that story.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Grace O'Brien, Thirteenth Doctor & Graham O'Brien, Thirteenth Doctor & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan, Thirteenth Doctor/Missy, Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 180
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellynz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellynz/gifts).



> Hey, it's me back with another multichapter. This one is LONG, and though I'm not quite done writing, I'm about 2/3rds (110k) of the way through. A few things I should note:  
> -this is an au, exploring the Doctor in a non-canon future. It's the thirteenth doctor, because I love her.  
> -SLOOOOOWBURN thoschei. It starts out 13/missy, but the master arrives a little bit in, and the goal is 13/dhawan endgame. Not all three of them together, lol, there's a time skip.  
> -thank you to my brilliant betas, and everybody who has motivated me to keep writing this fic! I'm a little nervous because I'm not sure how many people would actually want to read such a thing, but I'm having a lot of fun writing it, so I would love to hear your thoughts!

**Part one: In the Lost Kingdom**

He had thought he would die.

Actually, everybody thought he would die. Everybody who had known what he was planning to do, when he had stolen the Moment and escaped to a barn in the middle of nowhere, had assumed that he would not live to see if it had worked. That was even what he’d been planning. For as much as actions have consequences, he had never wanted to bear his own.

He still didn’t want to. But sometimes, things have a way of spinning out of his hands.

He did die. Several times. When he activated the Moment, it wound around him in a maelstrom of temporal electricity and ripped him apart piece by piece, five times. Once into a man with large ears, then again into a tall, skinny man with sideburns, then a youngish fellow with a rather large chin, followed by a tall man with impossibly bushy eyebrows, and ran out by the time he turned into a smallish woman with messy blond hair. This version of herself collapsed to the ground, feverish and unconscious, and by the time she woke up, the war was over.

Birds were singing when she opened her eyes, and that was how she knew that Gallifrey didn’t fall.

The entire planet was in a state of shock. So were the High Council. Nobody knew how to explain the sudden obliteration of the entire Dalek race, nor were they able to explain the sudden influx of panicky signals from every allied force across the universe.

That was how the Time Lords found out that whatever had won the war had taken half the universe with it.

————

“Ma’am?”

That was never a good sign.

“Mmm?” The Doctor raised her head from her pillow, and blinked blearily at the intruder. Sure enough, it was Marie. It was always Marie.

“Uh, you have a message from t-he—the High Council.” Her voice wavered on the last couple of words, and she bit them off hurriedly, feet poised halfway out of the doorway as if to run. The Doctor had never understood that. Twenty years she’d worked within the household, and still she jumped at the mention of the Time Lords. Could never look the Doctor in the eye either, which was just as damning.

“Oh. Huh.” She stared for a moment, unfocused, then blinked and dropped her head back to the pillow. The words weren’t making sense, and the world was spinning to boot, which was making it incredibly difficult to stay conscious. Her stomach roiled, and she groaned into her pillow.

“Marie, was I drinking last night?”

“Uh—” Marie dithered, uncomfortable. “The stock of ginger beer came in, ma’am. So did the global warfare statistics.”

“Oh.” Ever diplomatic, Marie. She was good at that. Could probably do the Doctor’s job better than herself, not that the Doctor ever did it. She usually avoided looking at any kind of reports or statistics, unless somebody stuck them right under her nose. Which somebody must have, else she never would have been drinking.

That was a lie. She would never waste a drink, and her kitchen was always stocked, courtesy of the world governments. The only ‘thank you’ she’d ever appreciate.

She wasn’t very thankful now. Mainly because her head was pounding and her stomach swirling, and the thought of breakfast—five courses of which would be undoubtedly served, courtesy of her a tireless delivery service—was positively nauseating. It was all she could do to parse out the message Marie delivered, the contents of which she already didn’t recall. A message. Something. There was always a message. At least it wasn’t an interview. Those were the worst, and the hardest to wiggle out of. 

“Ma’am?”

Maria again. The Doctor stifled a groan, if only because the poor woman didn’t deserve it.

“Yes, Marie?”

“The message is live, ma’am.”

Of course it would be live. The Time Lords had long since figured out that the best way to get the Doctor to pick up the phone was to deliver a live telepathic link, the kind that would only stop tugging at her brain once she actually answered. She could already feel it, prickling at the back of her skull. 

Hang on. Time Lords. Marie had said the High Council. That meant—

“Oh no,” the Doctor moaned, and sunk her head deeper into her pillow. She had only woken up, and her day had already gotten that much worse.

————

An old woman found her. She was a Shobogan, the Doctor was pretty sure, but she didn’t remember much beyond that. She remembered burning up with fever, and remembered the world swimming in and out of existence, and on the occasional moments when she came to, she remembered pain beyond belief. It bucked through her like electricity, constant and seemingly unending, and every time she tried to get up, to tear off the skin that enclosed her in such a boiling hell, the old woman would wrestle her back into bed with soothing words. Sometimes, the Doctor thought she was her fifth grandmother, come to sing her back to bed because she was young and had nightmares about the dark.

Sometimes, she thought the old woman had poisoned her, and was keeping her in bed to wring the last of her life out of her.

When she slept, she had nightmares. Nightmares of the war, and the Daleks, and the horrors she could only imagine because she had seen them up close, and nightmares of children that she couldn’t save, because she was only a Time Lord, one who had barely scraped by at the Academy, and a war that had wracked the universe was too much for any one person to fix.

She was the Doctor, but there were some things even she couldn’t heal.

One day she woke, and the fever was gone. Her chest ached, and her skin burned in a strange, tingly way, but her head was mostly free of fog. For the first time in—well, she didn’t know how long—she was firmly in reality.

She just didn’t know where that was.

“Where—” The word didn’t come out. It creaked somewhere at the bottom of her throat, and stayed there. She cleared her throat—deep, hacking coughs, the kind that scraped the very insides of her lungs—and tried again.

“Where…am I?”

No answer. That was fine enough. She had eyes, and things were coming back, slowly but surely. The room she was in was old, threadbare, and simply furnished. A Shobogan home, then. Nothing like the elegant adornments of the Citadel. That was almost a relief; she wasn’t sure she could bear whatever might face her there.

She wasn’t even sure what might face her. She wasn’t sure what had happened. The last things she remembered were the decision, the Moment itself, and then—pain. All of time flowing through her, undulating and incandescent, and it had _burned_. It still burned, scalded into her skin like the touch of a red-hot poker. She felt like she was blistering all over.

Something had worked, probably. If she was on Gallifrey, if she was in a Shobogan home, if the faint rustle of the wind could be heard outside, then it had worked.

And all she had to do was annihilate an entire species. 

She searched for guilt, and surprised herself by feeling very little. Mainly, she felt tired, and like she never wanted to think again. Memories were pressing at her mind, up close and uncomfortable, prickly like needles, and she couldn’t bear to search them. She had too much guilt to waste on the Daleks, not when what she had done was too little, too late. Not when two wires several lifetimes ago could have saved the universe.

Now, she was just cleaning up the mess. 

“Hello?” she called, her voice weak and thin. It was high, which was interesting. She was pretty sure she had a woman’s body this time around, which was new, but not curious enough to give much thought to. Probably about time, if she was being honest. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

She didn’t expect an answer. To her surprise, she got one.

The door swung open, banging against the wall. The Doctor jumped, fingers knuckling into the blankets, and stared as a small form tumbled into the room. He stopped at the foot of the bed and stared, dark eyes wide, and didn’t say a word.

A boy. Young enough that he had never known anything but war. He watched her with curious eyes, head cocked slightly, as if she were an animal in a zoo.

“Um…hello?”

The boy didn’t say anything. He was frowning now, studying her intently. As if trying to figure something out.

“Casten!”

The Doctor’s head jerked towards the door, just as an old woman bustled through. It took her a moment for recognition to slot in.

“You—you saved me,” she croaked, and watched the woman frown, deep creases lining her brow.

“You looked like you needed it,” she said, and crossed the room to lay a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. At her touch, the boy reluctantly tore his gaze from the Doctor and looked up.

“I didn’t do anything,” he pleaded. 

“Did you say hello, like a proper young man?”

The boy hung his head. “No,” he muttered.

The woman laughed, and patted him on the shoulder. “Well, go on then.”

The boy shuffled his feet, then turned to face the Doctor. He gave a quick, shy wave of his hand. “Hello.”

“Very good, dear. Now, run along.”

But the boy didn’t run. He took a step back, but kept his eyes on the Doctor, something indecipherable in his gaze. His eyes were old, the Doctor noted, and her hearts twisted at the thought.

_No more._

She had certainly made sure of that.

“Who are you?” She looked from the boy to the old woman, who pursed her lips, that frown still etching her brow.

“Nobody,” she said. “Well, there isn’t anybody but nobodies out here. Which is why it was odd to see you out here, dear.”

Despite the words, there wasn’t any question there. She only watched the Doctor, gaze firm and knowing.

She knew exactly what the Doctor did. The war has ended, and the Doctor was left standing there with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. She wondered if she should be worried. 

“I was…” she tried to say, and stopped. Couldn’t get the words past her throat. Speaking it aloud is to invite reality in the room, and she’s not sure she’s ready. The hope of it is as delicate as a soap bubble—a direct look might be enough to pop it. “I was—”

The woman held up her hand, silencing her. “Enough. No need for questions now. We have time. Well, you may have a day or so, dear. I had to alert the Citadel when I found a dying Time Lord practically in my backyard.” She cocked her head, studying her. For a moment, quiet hung in the room. “I’m sure you could understand.”

The Doctor did. That didn’t mean she had to like it. 

“Is it—” the boy started to say, only to be silenced once more by a hand on his shoulder. The woman continued to regard her, her gaze searching. The Doctor wasn’t sure why. 

Shouldn’t they be happy it was over? Shouldn’t they be—not celebrating, at least, but relieved? She certainly felt relief, deep as the dread that had so long been clinging to her chest. It washed over her, cool as an ocean wave, and she reveled in it. Pushed the grief, the horror off for later. She had plenty of time to deal with that.

“Can you—” she started, then stopped, trying to gather herself. She wasn’t sure she was ready to ask this question. The terror of it gripped her chest, but then, she was used to that. Terror came easily to her these days. That and panic, plus despair. A whole litany of negative emotions. She would be a therapist’s dream patient.

The old woman didn’t egg her on, but watched her, patient. Waiting.

“Can you—” She took a deep breath, and forced it out, the words strangled. “I need you to tell me—I need to know—”

She couldn’t finish it. She couldn’t ask the question. She had to know.

“Is the war over?”

The woman didn’t immediately answer. She only looked at the Doctor, gaze eternally inscrutable. She would kill for a gaze like that, the Doctor thought wildly, panic mounting in her chest. She had a feeling this body’s emotions spilled all over her face.

At last the woman sucked in a breath, nostrils flaring, and lifted her chin slightly. “Suppose you could say that. The Daleks are gone. Gallifrey stands.”

“Oh.” All the air rushed out of her chest. She deflated, sagging back into the pillows. “Oh. Oh.”

The war was over. The Moment had worked, and she had saved her own people with it. Reality was too good to be true. Her hearts, she realized suddenly, were pounding in her chest, banging out relief with every beat.

_It’s over. It’s over. It’s over._

She could hardly breathe for the weight of her relief.

“Mmm.” The woman nodded slightly, then patted the boy’s shoulder. “Casten, come help me in the kitchen. “You—” this she directed at the Doctor— “I’ll bring up some soup in a minute. And some salve, for those scars.”

“Scars…?” The Doctor frowned, then raised an arm. Her eyes widened.

Now she knew why she felt as if she were blistering. Her arm—no, her arms—no, her entire body, she could feel it—was covered in snaking red burn scars, climbing up her arms, curling over her legs. Every inch of her ached. Even across her forehead—when she reached up to touch, she felt the corresponding burn of one long welt, slashing down her forehead and right cheek.

“Oh.” She lowered her hand slowly, unsure how to feel. Bodily appearance wasn’t something she always cared about—there were exceptions—but this was different. This was…identifying. “Oh.”

The woman nodded again, this time brisk. “’Fraid I couldn’t prevent the scarring, but they should fade for the most part. I’ll bring up that salve.”

She didn’t wait for the Doctor’s response, but turned and left, eyes lingering for only a moment. The boy—Casten—glanced at the old woman’s retreating back, but didn’t follow. Instead, he turned back to the Doctor and leaned forward, propping his knuckles on the bedspread.

“Is it true?” he whispered loudly, as if he were asking something forbidden. “Is it true what my nanny said?”

The Doctor stared at him with tired confusion. Exhaustion was already tugging once more at her eyelids, and her brain was turning muddled. The great wave of emotion had apparently done her in; she wanted nothing more than to sleep.

“Is what true?”

“What you did.” The boy leaned even further forward, eyes wide. “About the universe. And the Daleks.”

“The…?” The Doctor frowned. Unease pricked at her insides, the feeling that she was missing something rather big. The feeling that she was standing under a hanging anvil and watching the rope fray. “I don’t understand.”

“They said you killed all the Daleks,” he whispered excitedly, bright eyes shining with solemn awe. “With a weapon so big it killed half the universe.”

The room slid slowly out beneath her. It swirled, then steadied, turning so still she thought she might vomit.

“What?” she whispered.

The boy opened his mouth, possibly to elaborate, when a voice rang up the stairs.

“Casten! Now!”

“Coming!” The boy huffed, then turned on his heel and left, leaving the door wide open. The space behind it gaped at her, dark and threatening to swallow her whole. She gazed at it without really seeing, and wondered if she was falling. The bed had opened up beneath her, and the bottom of the world dropped out.

She couldn’t breathe. That was it. Her hearts squeezed, her chest compressed. She opened her mouth, gasping for air, but nothing came. The room continued to spin slowly, silent and taunting. The space behind the door grew wider and wider, until it was all she could see, dark and consuming. She fell into it, and drowned.

For the first time in her many lives, the Doctor began to have a panic attack.

————

She avoided the message link for as long as she could, with surprising ease. Most of it was due to the wave of nausea that assaulted her the moment she became vertical, sending her stumbling into the bathroom. She stayed there for a good hour, interspersing waves of vomit with long minutes spent shivering in a sickly fever on the floor, as the aftereffects of the ginger beer wracked her body. 

She would never drink again, she promised herself fervently, and resolved to keep it. This was as traditional as the drinking itself; the regret, and the resolve to give it up. Some part of her liked to pretend she could be better.

The rest of her didn’t believe it.

Once the nausea went away, and stayed away for a reasonable amount of time, she heaved herself to her feet and stumbled back into her room, searching blearily for clothes. She’d fallen asleep in boxers and an old, rainbow striped t-shirt, which was now slightly stained with vomit, but a quick search of the room revealed that it was the cleanest thing available. She compromised by grabbing her worn blue coat, and draping it about her shoulders like a cape.

It wasn’t as if she had to meet anybody, anyway—and if she did, they could deal with a few vomit stains. It wasn’t as if they were the ones wearing them.

The telepathic link grew stronger as she wandered into the kitchens, digging at the base of her scalp like a bee sting. She winced and scratched at the spot, which brought no relief, and avoided the extravagant breakfast set upon the table to rummage in the fridge for orange juice. Decidedly one of the best human inventions, she had always said. Well, she had always thought. She didn’t really have anybody to say it to.

“Ma’am?” Marie poked her head through the doorway, her eyes moving from the set and untouched table to the Doctor, half-dressed and holding a carton of orange juice.

“Hmmm?” She turned, wiping off any possibility of a mustache. Marie had seen her in the worst of situations, but she still wasn’t sure she could live down an orange juice mustache.

“Dr. Benton is due to arrive for your appointment, ma’am. And your friend Grace said she would come by to say hello.”

A grimace rose to her face before she had the foresight to wipe it away. The telepathic link dug into her mind, and she winced. “Dr. Benton is coming? I thought I canceled those.”

“Government mandated, ma’am.” Marie gave her a weak sympathetic smile and disappeared, coattails fluttering. A silly uniform—and one the Doctor had argued against once she’d lost the argument on having any caretakers. There was nothing more humiliating than needing to be taken care of, she had insisted, especially since she was president of the world, and the Time Lord representative for planet Earth. The entire world was under her jurisdiction, not that she did anything with it. 

The world governments had disagreed, and three months after her arrival to earth in the early 1950s, after finding her drunk off a back alley in Sheffield, they had set her up with an incredibly large house right outside the city. Elegant, the height of luxury.

She hated every inch of it. Even worse, nearly seventy years later, she had gotten used to it.

The Doctor frowned and took another swig of orange juice, then set the carton back in the fridge. She closed the door, then sighed and leaned forward, resting her head against the cool metal.

Doctors were useless, and Grace, the closest thing she could call a friend, came more out of pity more than anything else. There was nothing any human could do to understand whatever happened to be going on in the Doctor’s mind, especially since she went out of her way to avoid it herself. Looking directly at it was like looking in the sun—it only burned. She’d rather stare at the ground, and feel the heat on her back. That way, the worst she’d get was a sunburn.

The telepathic link stabbed into her skull, hard enough to make her jump.

“Oh, for Rassilon’s—” she growled, then huffed and gave in, reaching out mentally to link in. She hated doing this. She’d never had a bad time of it before, but nowadays, tiptoeing through her own mind was like walking a tightrope. A little too far to either side, and she would fall into the abyss.

She’d done it a couple of times by accident, and wasn’t keen to do it again. Three days lost in your own mind, living out the worst possible of nightmares, was no nice trip for anyone.

“Ah, Doctor!” A slightly strained, but cheery voice chirped. “You finally—”

“Please don’t do the small talk,” she growled through gritted teeth. Telepathic links were painful for her to maintain. Probably something to do with her mental state, but it wasn’t worth thinking about. Most things weren’t worth thinking about. “Just tell me what the High Council wanted to tell me, please.”

She was being extremely charitable, adding the please. Unfortunately, the representative didn’t appear to appreciate it. Insult dripped through the connection, trickling down like raindrops on a window. The representative took a moment—an exceedingly _long_ moment—to collect themselves, then continued.

“I see.” This time, the voice was cold. “Well, the High Council just wanted to tell you that you will be hosting a visiting representative from a major quadrant later this week. Er, for the foreseeable future.”

“ _What?_ ” the Doctor exclaimed, head jerking up. The connection went wobbly for a moment and she teetered, then regained her balance. “Why? And who?”

The representative sniffed. “You know, it’s tradition to occasionally—”

“I know. Don’t care.” Tradition could stuff it. Nobody even wanted to come to Earth, she was pretty sure, seeing as it was the only single planet to host a representative from Gallifrey. The Time Lords ruled the entire universe, sure, but they divided it up into quadrants. Galaxies. Star systems, each assigned a Gallifreyan representative to enforce whatever rules the High Council deemed fit to lord over the universe. The only exception was Earth, and that was because it was the Doctor. 

And the Doctor, hero of Gallifrey, got what she wanted.

“Who is it,” she growled, when the representative didn’t respond to her barbed retort. “Tell me.”

A huff echoed over the link, followed by a sense of distinct dissatisfaction with the entire conversation. “The representative of the largest quadrant, actually. Quadrant 2XB. I understand you two know each other. Well, everybody knows him, but—”

She cut the link off with a wave of her hand, drawing back into her mind before the representative could babble on further. Dread was creeping up her spine, and her chest was starting to compress with a familiar and terrible sensation.

She knew exactly who was in charge of quadrant 2XB. The one person who should never be in charge of anything.

She just couldn’t imagine what the Master could possibly want with Earth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm nearing the end of the fic (ie writing, not editing unfortunately), so I thought I'd yeet an update into the void. Thank you all for the kudos and comments, I truly appreciate them!! seriously, I wasn't sure people would be interested in this story, but yall are incredibly kind.
> 
> Next chapter will be coming out either wednesday or saturday!

The soldiers showed up five hours later, pounding up the stairs and flinging open the door, the old lady hot on their heels.

“You can’t just barge into my house—!”

They ignored the old lady’s protestations to fan around the bed, guns pointed straight at the Doctor’s face. She didn’t even turn her head. Too busy staring listlessly out the window, though there was nothing to see. Only the empty landscape, stretching vast across the planet. In the distance, if she squinted, she could make out the smudge of the Citadel on the horizon.

She didn’t turn her head as one last pair of footsteps passed over the threshold, nor did she look up at the accompanying rustle of heavy robes. The footsteps stopped at the foot of her bed, and waited. Then, their owner cleared their throat.

“Doctor.”

She knew exactly who that voice belonged to. It wasn’t the kind of voice she could ignore.

She did for several moments anyway, dragging out the silence before finally turning her head.

“Rassilon.”

Rassilon dipped his head. Dressed in the pared down version of the High Council’s stately robes, he still, in the Doctor’s opinion, looked incredibly silly. It was a wonder how he got through the door with that collar. She almost wished she had seen it.

“It’s nice to see you, Doctor,” Rassilon said after a moment of awkward silence, which was almost definitely a lie. It didn’t matter, though; he said everything with enough smoothness to suggest a slippery truth. “Especially considering the circumstances.”

Circumstances. She wondered which ones he was referring to. The end of the war, or the price that came with it? The price that she had gouged out with her own hands, heedless of the consequences—she could feel the ache in her fingernails at the thought. The skin on her arms stung something awful, and she resisted the urge to itch.

Itching only made it worse, probably. Sometimes, however, she just couldn’t resist.

“Yeah.” She lifted her chin slightly, forcing herself to look Rassilon directly in the eye. Best to see what was coming for her, whether it be death or imprisonment. She’d prefer the former, but she doubted she’d get the choice. “It’s nice to hear the birds singing again.”

“Yes.” Rassilon watched her with sharp eyes, gauging and quick. They flitted over her face, then moved to the scars on her arms. Something twitched in his lips, only for a second, and then it disappeared. “And I must apologize for the delay. It took us a while to find you.”

Translation: took them a moment to figure out what had happened. The Doctor only gave a loose semblance of a shrug, her fingers balled into the bedsheets. Cold dread was starting to creep up her chest, though she wasn’t sure why. Funny—she’d thought such things would drift away with the end of the war. Panic, dread, terror. What was she scared of? She no longer feared death, not when she’d seen so much of it.

“That’s okay. I mean, it’s not like you should have been looking. Lots to do, cleaning up after a war.” She was starting to babble, she could feel it, and she couldn’t stop. The silence was oppressive, cottoning in her ears. In it, she could hear screams of a half a universe that didn’t exist anymore. “You’ve got the rebuilding, first of all, then the recuperation, returning people to their homes and such, and of course you’re got to figure out—”

“What happened, Doctor?”

The Doctor froze. Her eyes weren’t on Rassilon anymore, she realized suddenly, but had dropped to the bedsheets. They stared at the blue, worn fabric, as if she might find the answer there.

“I ended it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I finished it.”

Rassilon shifted, robes rustling. She could feel him regarding her, gaze discerning, as if trying to reach into her brain and dig out just what her angle was. A waste of time—she didn’t have an angle.

She didn’t have anything. She didn’t even have the telepathic means to stop him, should he try to take whatever answers he wanted. Her brain was too fried.

“We have to thank you for your service,” he said carefully, and she knew immediately that each word stood contingent on her corresponding answer. Whatever she said next would seal her fate. She just didn’t know what that might be. Nor did she particularly care.

“What do you want to know?” she asked, voice hoarse. Not with tears, but with simple agonizing truth, dragged out of her to sit judgment in the room. The elephant, tossed before Rassilon’s feet. “What do you want me to tell you?”

Rassilon didn’t immediately answer. He cocked his head and continued to study her, lips pursed. His gaze was hard, unyielding.

“In a more dramatic sense, I need to know what I’m going to do with you, Doctor,” he said softly. “There’s a lot to be done, now that the war’s ended. Not to mention, you’ve put us in an uncomfortable position. You’re a wild card, and I don’t like wild cards.”

She’d always been a wild card though, and they both knew it. She thought about laughing, right in his face, and decided she didn’t have the energy. They both knew the answer he needed to hear. She just didn’t want to say it.

But she had to.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” she whispered. “I didn’t do it on purpose. If that’s what you’re asking.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze boring into skin, though she refused to meet his eyes. Then he laughed, loud enough to startle her into looking up.

“Well then,” he said, and when she looked into his face, she caught the tail end of an expression shuttering away. Impossible to identify, except she thought it might have been jealousy. “We have a lot to thank you for.”

—————

The Doctor went straight back to bed, and stayed there.

One bit of news, and it was all too much for her. A visit might have been bad enough, but the idea of meeting her once best friend turned enemy was almost too much to bear. She had no idea what he might be planning to do to Earth, but she would have to stop him, if she could.

The problem was, this time around the Master would have the entirety of the High Council on his side.

She’d never expected the Master to play politics. Then again, war changed people, and perhaps the Master was no exception. He’d fought in it just like everybody else, more often for his own side than the Time Lords, but he’d scraped enough victories to get onto their good side. A genocidal maniac he might be, but by the end of the war, they all were genocidal maniacs.

The Doctor being no exception.

He was smart too—she had to give him that. Always had been neck and neck with her, and it had never been his intelligence that tripped him up, but hubris and impatience. Once he’d managed to reign those in, he’d been unstoppable, and that was a problem, because then he’d stopped.

Stopped trying to blow up planets for fun. Stopped killing off entire species just because he could. The war had ended and he—then she—had turned a new leaf, or claimed to. Seen the error of her ways, and committed to the new system of hegemonic rule that was slowly spreading across the universe.

The Master could be the Master, it turned out, if they only played by the rules. Especially since the Time Lords were handing out control of the universe, and the heroes of war were the first to receive their due.

The Doctor hated it. She hated all of it, and one time, long ago, she might have fought against it. But things change, and life was something she didn’t trust herself to play around with anymore. Not when she could take it so easily, like a child throwing a tantrum and accidentally smashing a toy.

“Ma’am?”

“Marie—” The Doctor spoke into her pillow, if only because her throat was starting to close and she didn’t have the energy to play sane. Darkness was creeping in around her, memories tugging at the corners of her mind, and all she wanted was to sleep, but she knew if she did, she would fall immediately into nightmares.

She longed for those pills humans sometimes took to sleep dreamlessly, but had learned long ago the hard way that they didn’t work. Now, she relied on ginger beer and her own ability to stay up as long as possible to avoid the dreams that chased her. An inefficient method, but one that worked, sometimes.

“Doctor, have you been in bed all morning?”

A new voice, warm and familiar and teasing in a way the rest of the world was scared to address her as, cut through the room. The Doctor paused, then lifted her head ever so slightly, just enough to catch sight of the woman standing in the doorway.

“Oh. Hi, Grace.”

“Good morning, madame president.” Grace gave her a mock salute, and stepped past Marie, who took the moment to slip gratefully away. “Or maybe I should say afternoon. It’s nearly one, love.”

“Time is a construct,” the Doctor mumbled, which was only true when you were actually constructing something with it. In truth, time was a slippery thing, ever changing and rarely constant, but always present, weaving a song throughout the universe. During the war, the song had been fractured and high, as if the entire universe was keening in pain. When the war had ended, it had settled back into something that resembled health. Sometimes she could still hear it though, humming a quiet song of loss. The entire Web of Time, grieving over what she had done.

She couldn’t blame it.

“Besides,” she continued, and rolled over to face the doorway, frowning as wisps of hair fell into her mouth. “I don’t have anything to do.”

“The leader of the world doesn’t have anything to do?” Grace scoffed, leaning against the doorway. “Tell me that again after you get rid of war and poverty.”

“Mmmm.” The Doctor wrinkled her nose, then forced herself into a sitting position. “I’m not a god, Grace. Nobody is. And besides, wouldn’t you like to be in charge of yourselves?”

The world governments certainly seemed to think that. They were smart enough to know that, should the Doctor ever change her mind and start doing the things she was supposed to, the power they had to actually rule their respective countries would be gone with a snap of her fingers. Which was probably why they made sure she had a steady supply of ginger beer shipped straight to her home, once a week. Twice, if she was having a particularly bad time.

Grace crossed her arms and shook her head, though her eyes were twinkling. They roamed over the Doctor, taking in the threadbare coat she had thrown on over her pajamas, the planet decorated boxers, and the vomit stain on her shirt.

“You know what?” she said after a moment. “Maybe we are better off in our own hands.”

Her words had the lilt of a joke to them, and the Doctor accepted it gratefully. She didn’t need the pressure of responsibility now. Now, or not ever, not when she had the Master’s visit looming over her head. The very idea filled her brain with foggy panic, the kind that pressed into her mind and obliterated rational thought.

Not that she had much rational thought left to obliterate—and she was pretty sure most of the Earth leaders would agree with that. 

“There you go,” the Doctor muttered, and with a stifled groan, heaved herself to her feet. Her stomach and head were still spinning off into opposite directions, orange juice notwithstanding. “Freedom to rule, and make your own mistakes. Probably the freest species in the universe, you ask me.”

“Hmmm.” Grace pursed her lips and regarded the Doctor for a long moment. Then she abruptly straightened, her hands falling to her sides. “Well. As one of the freest people in the universe, I’m going to freely ask you into the kitchen for tea and a chat. If you want that, before Dr. Benton gets here.”

“Uh—” The Doctor stuttered, taken off guard. Silly—she shouldn’t be. This was almost tradition, if she could ever have such a thing. Grace, though she no longer accompanied Dr. Benton on his visits, still made a point of coming out to the Doctor’s house every so often, just to chat. Chat, and probe gently into her mental state, which was a fair enough price.

The Doctor rarely got to chat anymore, and she’d be lying to say she didn’t miss it. Once upon a time, she had chatted her way across the universe. Seen any number of things, and met any number of friends. Nowadays, she only chatted to herself, out loud or in her head, and had long since given up on dragging Marie into conversation. There were only so many words she could shout into the void until she realized they were wasted.

The truth was, nobody wanted to talk to her. Not on this planet. On Earth, she was nothing but the mad Time Lord dumped on Earth to rule, and doing a terrible job, besides. To the human race, she was the worst god in existence, a figure so high above their heads that they had no choice but to sneer for all the mess she was. Destroyer of worlds she may be, but she was also a drunk and a layabout, and had never lifted a finger to help the world she was supposed to rule. The humans feared her, or they ignored her. Some, like Marie, did both. 

And back on Gallifrey—

Well. She didn’t go home unless she had to.

“Doctor?” Grace’s gentle voice cut through her thoughts, jerking the Doctor out of her reverie. She started, chin jolting up, only to realize that she had been staring out into space, breathing quietly, her hands on her knees as if poised to push herself to her feet.

“Huh?” She blinked, gaze refocusing on Grace. “What—oh. Tea. Sure.”

“Alright, love.” Grace smiled, warm and laced with sympathy, and took a step back, planting herself firmly in the hallway. “I’ll be in the kitchen, when you’re ready.” 

She turned and left, leaving the Doctor to watch her retreating back, something like loneliness panging in her chest. 

—————

They moved her to the Citadel immediately, and without asking if she wanted to go.

Not that it mattered. The Doctor protested weakly, when she had the strength to protest at all, and spent most of the journey drifting in and out of consciousness, chased by half-formed nightmares of a war that no longer existed, though its scars could be traced throughout half the universe.

Half, now whole. Could it really be called half the universe, when it was all that was left? She didn’t know to say. She didn’t want to think about it either, which meant that she did constantly, scratching at the useless question until it hurt like the welts etched into her skin.

Upon arriving to the Citadel, they transferred her immediately to a private hospital bed, the kind reserved for the top officials of the High Council and higher, if there was any higher to go. It was a lush, luxurious suite, with a private bathroom and an elegant bed and lights that dimmed according to her telepathic desires. She would have hated it, if she’d had the energy to.

Instead, and despite her best attempts, she slept. Dozed off even when she tried to stay awake, and fell consistently into a world of nightmares, of ghoulish monsters and Daleks and time twisting in on itself, of a thousand worlds destroyed and trillions of lives lost, and she herself to blame.

When she woke, it was with tears upon her cheeks, and always alone.

Nobody came to check on her. She wasn’t sure why. Of course, in a hospital room as advanced as hers, nobody needed to; all care was automated, right down to the food she received and the scheduled dose of medicine pumped into her arm. There was a button by her left elbow—a ‘call for assistance’. For the first three days, she ignored it out of sheer exhaustion; no need for a friendly face when she couldn’t even keep her eyes open. Besides, when she awoke screaming from nightmares, the last thing she wanted was a nurse to wrestle her back into bed. 

But by the third day, awake and nearly out of her mind with isolation, she had to wonder if they had forgotten about her.

It seemed unlikely, especially considering the way Rassilon had regarded her back in that room. His gaze then had been calculating and sharp, as if taking her apart piece by piece to put her back together again as a political weapon. If he was going to use her, it made sense that he would keep her alive. Then, if she was going to be executed, it made sense that they would keep her alive for that as well. No use killing her off if she was already dead.

Or maybe they just didn’t know what to do with her.

She caved on the fourth day and jabbed the button with her elbow, praying as she did that she wouldn’t get a doctor. She hated doctors. A bit hypocritical, but she had never liked to be the one getting fixed up. Always preferred to do the fixing, and under the care of a doctor, she always felt that same awkward discomfort that came from meeting a teacher outside of the classroom. Like the roles were all messed up.

But it was a nurse who came, a cheery woman with a large, dimpled smile and her hair done up in a bun. Her body was old but her eyes were young, and the Doctor couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been spared the worst of the war. Worked as a nurse on the homefront, maybe, and never had the chance to see the front lines. She hoped so. She hated seeing old eyes on young people.

“Hullo, dear.” The nurse smiled hesitantly as she bent over the Doctor’s physical readings—as if she wasn’t sure she deserved a smile, but felt it might be rude not to. “Something the matter?”

“Throat’s a little dry,” the Doctor confessed, pulling herself up into a sitting position and gripping her sheets. “And my tongue hurts, if you want to know. Could use some water. Maybe a lozenge. And some news, if you’re sayin’.”

“News?” The nurse’s voice was incredibly careful as she studied the readings, giving nothing away. The Doctor scrutinized her, and wondered if this was the new bedside manner, or something reserved just for her.

Then again, maybe she deserved it.

“News,” she prompted, leaning forward slightly. “On my condition. On what I’m doing here, lying on my backside for three days with nothing to show for it. I’m better now. I feel better.”

That was a lie, but if the nurse believed it, the Doctor was ready to run, pajamas and all. Back to the desert, back to the barn where her TARDIS would be waiting, and out into the stars, where she would find the most distant one of all to hide behind. Hide, until the entire universe became hidden from her, because she wasn’t sure she could bear to see what she had done to it.

It couldn’t be real. Maybe, if she ran fast enough and didn’t pause to look around, it wouldn’t be. Perhaps the guilt in her chest could melt like snow in spring, and the nightmares would slide from her brain like rain off a window.

All her life, she had been running. She wasn’t sure if she could outrun this, but she could damn well try. 

“Mmhmm.” The nurse straightened, and cast her a severe look. Her eyes lingered for a long moment, roaming over the scar across her forehead, and the discolored skin that crisscrossed her arms, and then she shook her head. “Sorry to say, but you’re only slightly less on the verge of keeling over. I could get you some water, but otherwise the care here should be perfectly sufficient.”

With that she turned and bustled to the sink set up on the far wall, placed amongst various emergency medical equipment. The Doctor watched as she took a cup and filled it, and wondered if she should ask the question on her lips. She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

“Why won’t anybody visit me?” It tumbled out before she could think it through, and she hated it immediately. It felt weak and needy, like a child pleading for her parents’ attention. “Are they going to kill me?”

The nurse paused, her back to the Doctor, the cup still frozen under the sink. She watched it fill slowly, as did the Doctor, and just as the water neared the rim, she reached out to close the faucet.

“No,” she said slowly, then turned around and crossed the room, handing the cup to the Doctor, who accepted it gratefully. “I don’t know, dear. I’m just a nurse.”

“But you must know something,” the Doctor insisted between gulp of icy water, the kind that hit the back of her throat and made her shiver. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. “People talk. Staff talk. You must have heard something. You—”

“I heard what you did,” the nurse snapped, then stopped suddenly, as surprised as the Doctor. She wasn’t looking at her, but staring at the dingy white bedsheets, as if they might contain the answer to the Doctor’s question.

The Doctor stared for a moment, speechless. Then she dropped her gaze to her water cup, and didn’t raise it again. Guilt rose in her, dreadful and hopeless and all-encompassing, and it was impossible not to fall into it. That was the tricky bit about being stuck in bed. The moment her legs stopped moving and her thoughts stilled, was the moment that it all became too much to bear.

During the war, she had never stopped running. Run from battle to battle, from loss to victory to loss again, run from the Daleks and the Nightmare Child and even the Time Lords themselves when they forgot who they were fighting and turned on each other, and run from the war itself, when she’d found out she could end it. Running, in the Doctor’s honest opinion, was the closest thing she could get to forgetting. So that was what she did; sprinted across the universe until memory trailed in her wake and new hope, fresh and reborn, splayed out before her.

Only this time, she was frozen still, and there was no new hope to guide her. How could there be, in the wake of her reality? Some things were too big to leave behind. Some things were too big to let go of.

Some things she had to carry with her, because the only place left to put them was her own, dimensionally engineered pockets.

Silence stretched across the room. Then the nurse sighed, her eyes fluttering shut, and stayed that way for a long moment. Air blew out her nose in a noisy rush.

“You saved us,” she said at last. Slowly, without opening her eyes, she shook her head. “Nobody knows what to think. Nobody knows how to feel. You saved us, but—” she sucked in another breath, and held it for a long moment before letting it out in another sigh— “I don’t know. I don’t know. You want to know what they say?” At this she turned to the Doctor, eyes open and serious, boring into her face. “They say things are about to change. The universe—whatever is left of it—is a mess, dear. Now, somebody has to clean it up.”

Of course. That was how it always went with war. She’d be foolish not to recall. 

The Doctor nodded, the words thudding dully into her stomach like so many stones.

“And me?” she asked, barely wanting to know the answer. “Is that why they left me here?”

“Honestly?” The nurse looked at her for a long moment, gaze roaming over her face. Not sharp, not calculating. Just…not understanding. Unable to comprehend. “I don’t think they know what to do with you.”

“Oh.” And that was all there was to say. Because of course—what else were they going to do? The Doctor was an incredibly annoying object taking up space. A wild card, unable to be slotted into the deck.

And if she was being honest, she had no idea what she was going to do with herself either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the story is a little slow to pick up-- a lot happens, but we have some tension to build first. Again, thank you for all the lovely comments, and I would love to know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it with another chapter!! and thank you guys for all the lovely comments, I am trying my best to answer them but I very easily get behind/get busy with writing/rip anxiety so if i dont get to yours just know that i appreciate it all the same! a couple things:
> 
> this chapter contains reference to a suicide attempt, which I will explain in the end notes for those who want to skip the chapter. its not explicit detail (one line) but just in case people are affected.
> 
> Thank you for your kind words, I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> WAIT ANOTHER NOTE: Just fyi, the story is entirely written (at 145k, 42 chapters), so no need to worry about abandonment! I will either be posting twice a week or three times a week - haven't decided yet. But it's all done, bar editing!

Before she ventured into the kitchen, the Doctor made an effort to dig a little deeper for proper clothing, or at least, something that wasn’t stained with bodily fluids. She didn’t find one, but she did find a jumper with what she determined to be an orange juice stain, which was marginally better. Her boxers she swapped out for actual trousers, and her bare feet for slippers. Not a vast improvement, but a slight one. It was also, she figured, the least that Grace deserved.

The tea kettle was singing by the time she made it to the kitchen, and as she scraped back a chair and settled at the counter, Grace had already begun to pour.

“You took your time,” she observed, eyes flicking over the Doctor’s new ensemble, lingering only momentarily on the orange-ish stain near the collar. “Thought I’d have to drag you out of your closet, love.”

“Very funny.” The Doctor wrinkled her nose as she took the proffered tea, then leaned forward to snag the sugar jar. “Trying to look presentable. Presidential, even. Seeing as I have a meeting today.”

“You mean your appointment?” Grace lifted her own mug and bent over the counter, propping both elbows on the ledge. “Dr. Benton will be glad to hear that.”

“Will he,” the Doctor grumbled, and, out of childish protest, dumped two extra spoonfuls of sugar into her tea. “Lovely to hear. Can’t wait to discuss my mental health with a human psychiatrist who holds no common ground with my species. Definitely helpful. I’m already feeling better.”

Grace clucked her tongue in disapproval. “See, with that attitude, you’ll never get anywhere. He may be human, but Dr. Benton gives good advice. He even helped me out a few times after my daughter died. You’d do well to listen to him.”

“Hmmm.” The Doctor avoided answering by sipping her tea, which turned out to be scalding. It burned her lips, and she set it down immediately. “Maybe. But it’s been years, Grace. I’m long past needing to see a psychiatrist. Anything that wasn’t already fixed isn’t likely going to be.”

And what needed to be fixed wasn’t worth fixing. She didn’t bother to voice the thought aloud. Nihilistic jokes were discouraged by Dr. Benton, and by extension Grace, which meant that she only thought them instead of saying them. It didn’t help that they were true enough to hurt, and therefore only cut her tongue on the way out.

Grace was far too forgiving of a mass murderer. She made tea for the Doctor, came by to visit long after she didn’t need to, and treated her like a person when by all rights she shouldn’t have. It was enough to make the Doctor speculate about Grace’s own character, if she didn’t continue to prove with every second that she had an exemplary one.

Grace regarded her for a long moment, then sighed and raised her mug to her lips. She took a slow sip, long enough to let the Doctor stew in slight, grandmotherly guilt, then lowered the mug and looked at her over the rim.

“You’re worse than my grandson, you know. Always going on about what he can’t do, and never what he can. You’d think I was talking to a brick wall for all he listens.”

“Is that why you don’t bring him to visit?” the Doctor asked irritably, only to stop short, guilt washing over her. It was stupid to ask a question she didn’t want to hear the answer to. Worse, even, that Grace didn’t immediately answer, but paused, studying her with an unreadable expression.

“No,” she answered after an impossibly long time. And didn’t offer more. The Doctor wondered briefly what that might mean, then forced herself to put it away. She would drive herself crazy wondering over the intricacies of human social interactions. Whatever Grace was—or wasn’t saying—it was a mercy not to hear. The Doctor didn’t need to ask the question to know that nobody in their right mind would bring a loved one to the house of a mass murderer, even if that mass murderer was the so-called president of the world. Outside the walls that enclosed her, she was nothing more than a horrific mystery, the person who had torn apart half the universe to save her own species. No wonder the humans feared her. She would fear her.

She did, actually, which was why she never bothered to face herself sober. If Grace wasn’t standing right before her, she would already be reaching for a bottle.

“Sorry,” she muttered into her tea, and didn’t look up. She didn’t know what else to say. Maybe she should just keep apologizing, for her rudeness and her general appearance and her inability to function, and keep on going until she’d reached all the way back into the Time War, where the darkest of her actions hid. Maybe, if she spilled her guts in front of the only human whom she might call a friend, she’d find some kernel of inner peace.

“Why do you visit me?” she blurted out instead, and looked up just in time to catch Grace’s baffled expression.

“What do you mean, love?”

“Why do you visit me,” the Doctor repeated, sounding each word out slowly. In truth, she wasn’t sure why she was asking this one, either. Probably another question she didn’t want to hear the answer to. “I know you don’t work with Dr. Benton anymore. I checked the files. You have your own practice now.”

Grace pursed her lips and looked at her for several seconds before answering. “Seems a bit funny to ask me this six years later.”

“Yeah, well.” The Doctor dropped her gaze to her mug and eyed it darkly, stewing in a burgeoning trench of preemptive self pity and petulance, She could almost feel the pity coming, and didn’t want to face it. “You probably have better things to be doing. You have a husband. And a grandson.”

“And they see me all week.” Grace leaned forward once more, setting her mug upon the counter with a soft clink. “I don’t have many friends you know, outside of work. Used to have a lot, but it’s a busy, working full time and raising your grandson. Sometimes, if you don’t want to go insane, you’ve just got to make friends with your patients.”

She smiled then, and winked, waggling her fingers, wedding ring glinting under the light. “Sometimes, you even get lucky and marry one.”

The Doctor stared at her for a moment, then snorted into her tea. “Sure Graham’s a lucky man. Even if you complain about him half the time.”

“ _Oi._ ” Grace balked. “Only about his eating habits. The man could live on cheese and pickle sarnies, it’s absolutely disgusting.”

The Doctor didn’t answer, but only smiled weakly, and gulped down another mouthful of tea. Grace had never brought Graham up to visit either, and of course, such things weren’t personal, but maybe they were. Or maybe, they had just spent so long pretending that Grace’s visits were strictly professional that they had forgotten to become friends.

It had taken an embarrassingly long time for the Doctor to realize that Grace had been visiting of her own free will. Six years ago, when she’d first been assigned a psychiatrist, she hadn’t realized that he would bring along a nurse. But Grace, who had recently moved into psychiatric nursing, apparently leapt at the chance to observe the solitary Time Lord, high up on her lonely hill. She had accompanied Dr. Benton for several of his visits, and then several more, and eventually, she started coming of her own free will. 

It was only much later, when she bothered to do a little sleuthing, did the Doctor realize that Grace needn’t have been coming at all. 

By then, she had long stopped protesting. Instead she submitted to tea and conversation and secretly enjoyed it, though she never dared admit such a thing out loud. She still had some measure of pride, though by all rights, she didn’t deserve any. Grace never questioned her either, except in that good-natured, grandmotherly way she had, the kind that bordered on teasing and never edged too far past seriousness.

The Doctor was a lost cause. She had even tried to prove it, six years ago, with a single aspirin pill, and it was only luck, and Marie’s spectacularly unfortunate good timing that had saved her. Now, she was resigned to living with the consequences, whatever that may be. 

It was probably more of a punishment, anyway.

She didn’t realize she was lost in her thoughts until the doorbell started her out of them. She jumped, nearly dropping her tea, and started to swivel around, only for Grace’s gentle hand to stop her.

“Just the doorbell, love.”

“I know it’s just the doorbell,” she said crossly, which was true and not. Of course she recognized the doorbell—she’d heard it often enough, bearing unfortunate visits and representatives of various governments she never wanted to deal with. It was the surprise she didn’t like, especially now that she was on edge, half-expecting the Master to burst through the front door and level his Tissue Compression Eliminator at her staff. 

“Dr. Benton shouldn’t be here yet,” she babbled instead, sudden, incomprehensible panic taking over her. These happened sometimes, these unexplainable waves of terror, as if her world were suddenly tilting to the side, and she scrabbling to stop it. Panic attacks. Dr. Benton called them. She had anxiety, apparently, and a whole host of other conditions that she couldn’t deal with anyway, because most human medication was poison to her. Dr. Benton assigned her instead breathing exercises that she never bothered to do, because they seemed particularly humiliating. “Could have sworn he’s coming at three, or was it four? I’m going to have words if he comes early, where I come from it’s entirely rude to—”

“I don’t think it’s Dr. Benton.” Grace’s hand was firm upon her shoulder, a steadying weight, despite the Doctor’s usual aversion to touch. Her voice lilted with understanding, which at any other time the Doctor might have hated, but at the moment she was only vaguely grateful for. “It’s probably my ride, love. I asked her to come around two.”

“Your ride?” the Doctor repeated dimly, head still spinning. She stuck the words together in her mind, and couldn’t seem to make sense of them. “You don’t have a ride, Grace. You drive here.”

Grace laughed, and draw back her hand, then came around the counter to collect her purse, tossed on the nearby table. “Usually, but my car broke down this morning. I was actually going to phone you, when a lovely police officer came by and offered me a ride. Think she was bored, the poor thing. Anyway, she drove me here and offered to pick me up when I was finished. Probably shouldn’t keep her.”

“Oh.” Realization landed with a dull thud, anxiety slipping away like water down a drain, and immediately the Doctor felt stupid. She always felt stupid, when she got like this. Dr. Benton told her that was to be expected, but what did he know? The man had never even left the planet. “Sorry. About your car, I mean. Could probably fix it, if I—”

She stopped, the words falling to the back of her throat. If she left the house, she could fix it. Only that wasn’t very likely, not when the collective world governments discouraged her from taking any lateral movement, even if that lateral movement was out the front door of her very own property. Years ago, the Doctor had taken pains to throw that discouragement in their faces, knowing that there was nothing they could do about it. Now, she didn’t really care. Over time, the walls she’d built around herself, through ginger beer and peevish silence and throwing out the most annoying officials to visit her, had become brick and mortar, physical in every way but reality. Her TARDIS stood in the back room, and though nothing prevented her from going off planet, she never did. Not more than once every five years, and that wasn’t even by choice. 

Grace patted her arm, then slung her purse over her shoulder and gave a smile that seeped with understanding. “It’s alright. Ryan said he’d take a look at it, and he’s quite the sharp study with mechanical things. We should be fine.”

The Doctor nodded dully, and watched her turn towards the front door. The doorbell rung again, insistent, but this time it only sent a shock through her, like an unpleasant burst of electricity. 

“I’ll see you off.” She rose, pushing her chair to the side, and smiled wanly at Grace’s look of surprise. “What? I have manners. Some. I come from a planet of manners, you know.”

Grace studied her curiously, then gave a slight smile. “Last time you told me you came from the planet of high collars.”

“And that one’s true too. What do you think Time Lords do all day, besides oversee the universe? Make up funny fashion and wear it on weekdays.”

She followed Grace to the door, wincing as the doorbell rang again, this time with an impatient air.

“Nice girl, you said,” she said as they approached the door and Grace reached out to pull the handle. “Pretty sure nice people know not to abuse doorbells.”

Grace ignored this to pull open the door and give a large—pointedly so—smile to the person on the other side. A girl, pretty and awfully young. “Yaz! Lovely to see you, dear.”

“Thank you, Ryan’s nan.” The girl—Yaz—smiled stiffly, as if she were trying very hard to be professional but was too familiar to be good at it. “You can call me by my title, if you want.”

“After knowing you since primary?” Grace clucked her tongue and stepped through the door, leaving the Doctor to linger awkwardly in view. “Please, love. You used to play with Ryan after school. I definitely have first name rights.”

Yaz nodded, slight disappointment marring her expression, then shifted slightly, equipment clinking. Her eyes roamed past Grace, and settled on the Doctor, then widened. “Oh—hi.”

Clearly, she hadn’t expected to see the Doctor. Clearer still, she didn’t know how to react. Her eyes went round as saucers, and her gaze flickered over the Doctor’s form, taking in the blue trousers, the threadbare coat, and the orange juice-stained jumper. Confusion flashed across her face, and the Doctor waited for it to morph into fear.

It didn’t. Yaz only stared, brow slightly furrowed, as if she were trying to combine the reality of the Doctor with whatever image she had in her mind.

“Yaz, have you met the Doctor?” Grace turned slightly, raising an expectant eyebrow. It took Yaz a moment to answer. She stared, mouth slightly open, then snapped her jaw shut and shook her head.

“No.” She hesitated, eyes roaming over the Doctor’s face, lingering on the stripe of discolored skin across her forehead, then stepped forward and held out a hand. “PC Yasmin Khan, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”

The Doctor stared and her hand, and wondered if she was honestly expected to take it. Instead, she wrinkled her nose. “Don’t need the ma’am, thanks. Yaz is a lot less syllables, by the way.”

“Uh—” For the second time in nearly as many minutes, Yaz gaped. “I—you can call me Yaz. I guess. Most of my friends do, anyway.”

“Oh.” Now it was the Doctor’s turn to draw back, feeling awkward and slightly foolish. She hadn’t meant to place herself in a position of friendship with another human, not when she already knew more than enough. She didn’t need friends, had in fact put away the notion after the Time War and rarely played with it since. Grace was an oddity, and not one she was keen on repeating. 

“Yeah.” When the Doctor didn’t take her hand, Yaz drew it back, hooking her thumbs under her vest. “Uh.Well. Like I said, nice to meet you.”

“Uh. Thanks.” She groped for something else to say, and couldn’t find it. Out of desperation, she cast her eyes to Grace, who was watching her with a slightly mischievous smile, as if she were enjoying the exchange. “Shouldn’t you two be going?”

“Graham doesn’t expect me back until three.” Grace’s smile broadened. She was definitely enjoying this, the Doctor thought mutinously, and she couldn’t entirely tell why. Possibly, she enjoyed forcing the Doctor into social interaction, though now that she thought of it, it was the Doctor herself who had deigned to see her out. 

She should have stayed in the kitchen.

“Right.” She squinted at the gray sky, and flattened a hand over her eyes. “Getting dark, though. Don’t want to be driving in the nighttime.”

“It’s not—” Yaz began.

“She’s probably right.” Grace cut Yaz off with a kindly hand on her shoulder. “It does look like rain, doesn’t it? And I’m betting you need to get back to your shift.”

Yaz grimaced. “No rush. It’s been a slow shift. Well, it’s always a slow shift. Parking disputes, you know.”

“Well, parking disputes are important to someone,” Grace said, though the Doctor couldn’t imagine who she might mean. She nodded to the Doctor. “Nice seeing you, Doctor. I’ll try to visit soon, if I get time off work.”

“Don’t take your time off for me, Grace.” The Doctor fidgeted, uncomfortable. She didn’t like the idea that Grace might be using valuable time off just to visit her. If it came to that, the Doctor could just drag herself into Sheffield, rather than force her to make the lengthy drive up. “I can keep myself occupied.”

“Lying around in bed all day?” Grace raised an eyebrow, and when the Doctor didn’t respond, shook her head. “Please. You must be bored half to death up here. It’s a wonder you don’t call for more company.”

Grace knew exactly why the Doctor didn’t call for company. Still, she smiled at the Doctor, something knowing sparkling in her face, and the Doctor couldn’t guess what it was. As if there were some game she were playing at, only Grace wasn’t the type to play games. At least, not the cruel kind.

“Well, you know.” The Doctor rolled her shoulders, forcing nonchalance. At her back, the safety of the house beckoned. Why had she bothered to see Grace off again? She couldn’t recall. “Company’s great, but I scare most people off, I reckon. I mean, look at me. I’m terrifying.”

“I don’t think you’re terrifying,” Yaz put in, then shut up promptly, a surprised look on her face. As if she hadn’t expected the words to come out of her mouth. With vague amusement, the Doctor watched her backtrack. “I mean, it sounds lonely. Stuck up here, nothing to do.”

“I—”

“You’re right,” Grace said, cutting her off so smoothly it took a Doctor a moment to realize she’d been stopped at all. “Yaz, you should come up sometime. Tour the house. It’s been around since the 1950s, you know. Practically historic.”

The Doctor gaped at her, disbelief ringing in her ears. “Grace, I—”

“That’s kind of cool, actually.” Yaz stepped back to examine the house, impressed. “Would the evening be okay? I finish my shift around six.”

“The—this evening?” The Doctor practically choked on the words. Yaz nodded, nonplussed, and before the Doctor could scramble for an excuse, Grace jumped in.

“She’d love it, dear. Dr. Benton even mentioned you had a clear schedule this afternoon. Isn’t that true?” She shot the Doctor a look, the kind that killed protestation on sight. The kind that said she better do as Grace said, or she’d be seeing Dr. Benton once a week instead of once a month.

“I—yes,” she gave in with a huff, betrayal stinging deep in her chest. So much for friends, she decided irritatedly. Nothing more than acquaintances at this point, she’d make sure of that. She could make her own tea, and talk to herself if it came down to that.

Except that this evening, if Yaz stuck to her word, she’d have to talk to her too.

“Good.” Grace smiled, satisfied, and gestured to Yaz. “C’mon, love. I really should be going. Graham’ll be wondering.”

And just like that she was gone, leaving no last word for the Doctor to protest and no chance to argue the decision she had come to. A decision that involved the Doctor, in every way except the one that mattered, and she hated it. Hadn’t she had enough going above her head? The whole world made decisions without her. The whole universe too, not to mention the High Council, which bothered with her only when they needed a pawn to move about on their expansive chessboard. The Doctor’s life was no longer a thing of her own, and she had long made peace with it, except where she could. Now it burned her, and she stared angrily at Grace’s retreating back for a long moment, before whirling around and slamming the door behind her.

Only to remember that it was nearly three, and Dr. Benton would be arriving any minute. Somehow, her day had gone from bad, to even worse.

The Doctor groaned and sagged against the door, burying her head in her hands. She wondered bitterly if it would be useful to wish she were dead, and then decided she might as well just wish for a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick summary: the doctor talks with grace, who is as usual, a lovely person, and meets yaz, who offered to drive grace to the doctor's house/pick her up when her car broke down. grace, being That Person, connived yaz into visiting after her shift so the Doctor would make another friend.
> 
> This fic definitely isn't thasmin (thought I do miss my gays rip) but it does seem to lean that way for a hot sec, if only bc I really like the friendship between yaz and the Doctor, and I like developing it. DW though, its very much thoschei all the way.
> 
> ALSO: in this fic, Grace is a nurse practitioner, and holds her own practice. I KNOW this isn't exactly something in the UK, but I wanted to elevate Grace a little bit beyond a simple nurse who got killed off, you know? And I didn't want to make it that she was the Doctor's nurse. IDK. So basically, she observed the Doctor for a few times then yeeted off to make her own practice and in the meantime was like 'this gremlin Time Lord is my friend'. This is only important in backstory, so please forgive my artistic license.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the lovely comments! legit that's mainly the reason i am updating now instead of saturday and also because im impatient lol

Seven days after the nurse came to visit, the Doctor called her back.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she begged, desperation shoving shame into oblivion. “Please. You have to know something. Anything. I’m going to go mad sitting here.”

The nurse just pursed her lips as she checked the Doctor’s vitals, frowning slightly over her heartrates. “Do you have nightmares, dear?”

“What do you think?”

The nurse glanced at her, and didn’t say anything. After a long moment, she turned back to the monitors, and when she left, the Doctor was no better off than before.

This lasted another three days, and by the time somebody came to visit her, the Doctor was so out of her mind she thought she was hallucinating.

“About time,” she slurred to him, the dregs of the medicine in her system half-pulling her back into sleep. She resisted it, if only because she couldn’t bear to face the blackness again. “Makes sense I’d start imagining you lot. You know, brains go a bit wild without stimulation. Bare room, blank walls. You don’t even hang bloody pictures in here, and the nurse won’t even—”

“Doctor.” The man’s voice was sharp enough to slice right through her babbling. She fell silent and lifted her chin to look up, bleary eyes roaming over his form. One look was enough to ascertain he was from the High Council, if only thanks to the enormous collar that graced his neck. Beyond that, she couldn’t recognize him, though that said nothing. She took pains not to know anybody on the High Council unless she had to.

“That’s m’name,” she told him. “Don’t suppose you’ve got one.”

The man’s lip curled. He didn’t answer the question. Instead, his eyes picked her over like a bird picking over a carcass, lingering on the scars that etched her skin, before he let out a small huff, nostrils flaring. The Doctor suddenly had the strong impression that he wanted nothing less than to be standing before her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Huh?” The Doctor stared, astonishment shocking her out of her drowsiness. Of all the questions that a Time Lord might ask, ‘how are you feeling’ never made the list. Particularly from a member of the High Council. It came dangerously close to caring, and one could never have that.

“Why do you ask?” she said, narrowing her eyes. The man sighed, and shifted his feet.

“You have been under medical care for nearly two weeks, Doctor, placed here by the High Council. You don’t think we would be interested in your status?”

“Status, sure,” the Doctor said. “Wellbeing, no. What do you want?”

The man frowned, impatience fraying at the edge of his expression. Funny how she always managed to bring that out of people. 

“Nothing,” he said, though his look told her the opposite. “But there’s much to be done, Doctor. You may have won us this war, but there’s an entire universe to rebuild. Somebody has to do it, and with nobody else around…”

He trailed off, and gave a very un-High Council-like shrug. The Doctor only stared. His words echoed in her ears, equally distinct as they were incomprehensible. She tried to put them together, and failed. “Won you the war. You’re talking about—”

“Your victory,” the man snapped, cutting her off. She paused, and his expression loosened slightly, lips flattening. “What you did for our people, Doctor. The sacrifice you made. Not everybody is capable of such heroics.”

“Heroics,” the Doctor echoed, head spinning. Nothing about this was making sense, and she wasn’t sure the medication was playing a part anymore. Nobody in their right mind could call such a deed heroic, not even the Time Lords. Not when—when—

“Yes,” the man continued, seemingly oblivious to her discombobulation. His voice rung empty and distant in her ears, as if he were on the opposite side of a very large field. “Doctor, you’ve saved us all. No matter our prior relationship, the Council deems it only fair to give you your due. Of course, we will talk further, especially if you plan on pursuing a career in politics or something similar, but at the very least, the celebrations next week—”

Celebrations. Politics. It all whirled around her head in gathering speed, like a storm whipping up its fury. None of it made sense, despite how she struggled to grasp some measure of it. Herself, a hero, for destroying half the universe. The High Council, raising her up upon a pedestal, as if that were even what she wanted—

“No,” she gasped, and the man fell into a surprised silence, as if he hadn’t expected her to speak at all. Perhaps that had been what he was planning; reel off his speech and then disappear, leaving her alone for another week until she capitulated into whatever they wanted her to do.

For a moment, he only stared. Then, he quirked an eyebrow. 

“No?”

“No,” she repeated, and groped for something else, something sensible out of the cacophony of dreadful confusion that spanned her mind. “I won’t—you don’t understand. I’m not a hero. What I did was—I didn’t mean to. I can’t—you can’t make me say that I did something good, not when—”

“When you saved the entirety of the universe?” The man’s eyebrow rose higher. He eyed her with an air of indulgent amusement, as if arguing with a toddler. “I assume you expected us to castigate you. Toss you into jail, or execute you, or something equally barbaric.”

“Maybe.” The Doctor lifted her chin slightly, some of her defiance returning. “Why would you let me live?”

_Why won’t you let me die_ , was the unspoken question. If the man understood it, he didn’t let it show.

“Do you really want to know, Doctor?” When the Doctor nodded, he sighed and shifted once more, robes settling with a rustle of cloth. “I’ll put it to you very simply. The entire universe is in disarray. Our people even more so. We need somebody to rally behind, lest we fall into chaos. So does the universe. Of course, as Time Lords, we will perform our duty to the universe—”

“What duty?”

The man paused, and cast her a long look. “Our duty to fix what we’ve done, Doctor. To ensure that the universe will never experience something like this again. Our days of standing to the side are over. Surely even you must realize that.”

“No,” the Doctor answered, if only because it was true. No, she’d never considered such a paradigm shift. No, she’d never thought that the High Council would shake the dust off of their ridiculous collars and rise to have a hand in the universe. Even if that hand was an iron fist, and the chance to rule was served to them on a silver platter.

Perhaps the Doctor had always been a blind idiot, and it was only now that she was starting to open her eyes.

“Well,” the man continued briskly, after she neglected to add anything more, “even so. There is much to rebuild, Doctor. And we need somebody to stand behind. Of course, the High Council will do the heavy lifting, considering your, er, condition, but still. You’re a hero, Doctor. It’s about time we recognize that.”

“Is it?” the Doctor asked weakly, protest building in her chest and yet unable to form. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know how to refuse. She’d expected them to kill her quietly behind the curtains, condemning her forever as the madman who had destroyed half of the universe. It was all that she deserved.

It was all that she had been hoping for. 

“Yes,” the man said impatiently. “Doctor—you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You did what had to be done. We only want to reward you.”

As a figurehead. As a pawn. As a tool and weapon for the High Council to wield, however they might see fit. Of course they wouldn’t kill her, she realized with a sinking heart. Not when she was so bloody useful.

“What if I refuse?” she said, so quietly that the man frowned and leaned in to hear.

“Sorry?”

“What if I refuse,” she said louder, licking dry lips. Nerves sparked in her chest, though she couldn’t explain why. She had defied the High Council so many times before; why should this time be any different?

Perhaps because there was a look in the man’s eye that gleamed with cruel determination, as if he might expect her to say no, and had been waiting for that exact moment.

“Doctor.” He leaned in, voice low and smooth, and the Doctor shrunk back, suddenly aware of just how much of a disadvantage she was at. Stuck in bed, weak as a kitten, unable to move for the wires hooking her into machines. And sure enough, the man’s eyes moved from her face to the machines, which beeped softly as they ran life support.

“You’re not quite in a situation to refuse.” He smirked and the Doctor drew back, wrinkling her nose. Of course he’d be wearing some noxious perfume. “Not now, and I’m afraid, not ever. There are, after all, things that need doing. Areas of time set right, and loose areas to be tied up. The Web of Time is intricate, Doctor, and has been left to fray for far too long. It’s about time we fix things up.”

The Doctor stared at him, confusion melting into dreadful suspicion. “What do you mean?”

For a moment, the man didn’t move. Then he sniffed and drew back, adjusting his collar.

“There are species and systems that, left unchecked, have been known to wreak havoc across time and space.” He moved to fiddle with his sleeves, and didn’t look at the Doctor. “The human race is one of them. Unfortunately, as part of our new initiative to make the universe safer for all, we’ll have to eliminate the…unsafe.”

“No,” the Doctor said, dull panic rising up in her. It wasn’t fair, she thought dimly, her chest swelling with fear. This couldn’t be the future of the universe—this couldn’t be the future, period. The Web of Time— “You can’t do that. You’d change the fabric of reality itself.”

“Yes, we would.” The man splayed his fingers to examine his nails—each one perfectly manicured. It was a long moment before he even bothered to glance at the Doctor. “But you know what, Doctor?”

The Doctor stared at him. Her hearts pounded away, helpless in their urgency. “What?”

“Sometimes, we all must do what we have to.” He glanced at her, watching the fear and silent surrender shift across her face. “Surely you understand that.”

He’d hit her right where it hurt—slicing through the ribs like the sharp point of a knife. She looked at him for a long moment, then dropped her chin, her gaze falling to the blankets. Defeat washed over her, heavy and stifling. She might have been sitting propped up in a comfortable bed, but for all she felt, she was flat on the ground, lying at his feet.

Powerless. Hands tied. And she, with no strength to fight back. What was the point, she thought dully, of wielding her freedom of decision when her decisions had led to the destruction of half the universe? At this point, even the High Council was better than she. 

She didn’t have the right, she thought bitterly, to decide what was for the best. She’d given that up when she activated the moment.

After several moments of thick, lingering silence, the man spoke. “I’m judging by your lack of argument that we are in agreement.”

“Yes,” the Doctor whispered to her bedsheets. She didn’t look up. “I don’t think I have a say, do I?”

The man laughed harshly. “Oh, Doctor. Not many people in the universe have much of a say in anything they do. Why should you be any different?”

Because she wanted it. And she didn’t, too. Responsibility burned, like flame pressed to her bare skin. She’d never really done well under the weight of it—her most recent actions being a prime example. Perhaps this was truly for the best. No more Doctor mucking about the universe. No more destruction at her hands.

It was almost worth it.

When she didn’t answer, the man sighed, then turned to the door. She listened to his footsteps, tapping quietly across the tile, and didn’t raise her head until she heard the creak of the door.

“Why did you decide this?” 

The man paused, the door half-ajar. “What?”

“Why didn’t you kill me?” the Doctor pressed, voice weak and reedy with desperation. “It would have been easier. For everybody. You could have told them I died doing it.”

The man hesitated—she saw it in the slight tense of his shoulders, the shift of his feet. Then he sagged slightly, and half-turned to face her.

“Let’s just say…” He paused, picking over the words carefully. “You had a very vocal advocate.”

“Who?” the Doctor called, but the man was already turning, sweeping out the door. “Who?”

The door shut behind him with a soft click, leaving nothing but silence in its wake. She stared for several linear seconds, counting each one as it went by.

Then she collapsed backwards onto the pillows, covered her face with her hands, and stayed that way, trembling, until sleep at last overtook her.

—————

Dr. Benton was exhausting, and that was only if the Doctor was being kind.

In truth, she despised his visits. It was the monthly equivalent of pulling teeth, if she had no pain medication and the dentist was a kindly old man who smiled and asked her if it hurt after every one. She went through it rote, mumbling the answers she could get away with and rambling off on distracting tangents when she couldn’t. On this visit, she was at the very least partially successful; while the Doctor walked out with no further clarification on her mental state, Dr. Benton walked out with a thorough understanding of Bentazi politics.

Appointments were only meant to last an hour and a half, but through her multiple attempts at verbal evasion, they often stretched past three hours. It was nearly dark by the time Dr. Benton took his leave, stepping through the front door and into a gray evening which had yet to entirely fall.

This time, the Doctor did not see him to the door. She waited tensely in the kitchen until he left, then retreated to her room and shucked her trousers and coat before collapsing upon the bed.

Only for the doorbell to ring.

The Doctor flinched. Then, hearts pounding, she heaved herself to a sitting position and glanced desperately to the clock on her bedside table. She had no appointments for the rest of the day, she was sure of it. If she had, she would have canceled them by now—she usually did sometime in the afternoon, when she couldn’t bear to face the reality of social contact. 

So who the hell could be ringing the door bell this late in the evening?

As if on cue, the doorbell rang again, this time with an air of impatience, if a doorbell could have such a thing.

“Oh, for Rassilon’s—” The Doctor huffed and swung her legs over the side of the bed, then ran a hand through disheveled hair, considering. She could certainly ignore it. She could even call the security unit housed in a hut off-grounds to take the person away.

But she hated dealing with the security unit, and she had a feeling that, judging by the amount of rings, whoever stood at her front door was the stubborn type.

So with a sigh, she launched to her feet, and, stumbling with a wave of vertigo, made her way to the front door, cursing the whole while. She didn’t even pause to check through the peephole when she got there, but just growled and reached out to yank the door handle, already mentally preparing a list of excuses for whoever might be waiting on the other side.

And forgot them the moment she opened the door, which happened to be the exact moment she recalled who was meant to be visiting her.

Yaz stood on the porch with one fist raised, as if she had been about to knock. When she saw the Doctor, she slowly lowered it, tucking it into the pocket of a coat that was considerably fluffier than whatever she’d been wearing before.

“Hi,” she said, eyes roaming uncertainly over the Doctor’s face. They swept only briefly over the stain on her shirt, before dropping to her boxers, and that was when the Doctor remembered that she had neglected to put trousers on.

“Uh, hi,” she returned, and took a slight step backwards, as if that might disguise the lack of clothing. Probably, she should have looked through the peephole. If it had been a government official, she wouldn’t have cared one whit. “You actually came.”

“Uh…yeah?” Yaz frowned, brow crinkling in confusion. “I said I was gonna.”

“Humans don’t often do what they said they’re going to,” the Doctor replied without thinking, and wished for just a moment that Yasmin Khan had stuck to traditional human behavior. She really didn’t feel like socializing right now, even with Grace’s friend. Rather, she felt like getting a drink, and then another, and then another until she passed out into hopefully dreamless sleep.

Yaz’s frown deepened, edging dangerously close to affront. “Yeah, well,” she said stiffly, “I’m not most humans.”

“Oh. Right.” Right, because Yasmin Khan was a cop, and had the smell of ‘do-gooder’ coming off of her in waves. The Doctor should have known that she’d be the exact kind of person to show up precisely when she was expected to, even if the other party expected the opposite.

Somehow, this day was a boulder rolling down a hill, and she the poor soul standing at the bottom. 

“So.” Yaz raised an eyebrow, her gaze moving past the Doctor to the confines of the house. “Are you going to let me in?”

“Into—oh. Yeah. Yes, come in.” Grudgingly, she stepped backwards and held the door half-open, closing it the moment Yaz slipped inside. “This is my humble abode.”

“Humble,” Yaz stated dryly, eyebrows rising at the sweeping ceiling and large hallway. “It’s really…nice.”

“Historic,” the Doctor corrected, and turned down the hallways, not bothering to check if Yaz would follow. She seemed like the type to. “Well, historic to you lot. You all seem to think that history is something that just happens over the years, like mold. Or asbestos.”

“Isn’t it?” Yaz jogged a little to catch up, falling into pace just as they entered the kitchen. The Doctor glanced to her, and watched as her eyes swept approvingly over the large linked dining room and distant living room. “I mean, history is the past, ain’t it? It’s stuff that happens.”

“It’s stuff that’s _happening_ ,” the Doctor said, before swinging around the counter to make a grab for the fridge door. “History is just time. And time is happening constantly. Past and present are irrelevant. So is future, for that matter. Drink?”

“What?” Yaz’s gaze jerked to the Doctor, who tilted her chin to the fridge. “Uh, no thanks. I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Great. Neither do I.” The Doctor poked her head inside the fridge, and returned with two bottles of ginger beer, one which she slapped on the counter in front of Yaz. “Here, if you want it. If you don’t, I’ll get around to it later.”

“Uh, thanks.” Yaz looked at the bottle, and didn’t take it. Instead, she watched the Doctor pop the tab on hers and take a long swig before lowering it to the counter. “Is this what you do all day? Drink ginger beer?”

“No,” the Doctor lied, then winced and backtracked into something closer to the truth. “I don’t do anything all day. That’s my job. Do nothing, and leave it to you lot to sort out.”

“Really?” Yaz didn’t seem to like this answer. She leaned forward, propping both elbows on the counter. “Is that why you never leave your house?”

The Doctor, midway into another swig of ginger beer, snorted right into the drink. “’Course not. I don’t leave the house for other, perfectly good reasons.”

“Like what?” Yaz asked, interest blooming across her face. Cautious interest, even as she leaned slightly further forward, like she wasn’t supposed to get into this conversation but wanted to all the same. She had that sort of look about her, the Doctor decided. The kind of person who could have been a troublemaker, if she hadn’t decided to do good.

She thought of another girl like that, long ago, and her heart panged with loss. 

“Like humans are boring, and I have plenty to do here,” she lied, and didn’t add the other bit. _Because you lot are terrified of me, and for good reason_. “Busy all day, me. Not with your human business. With other things. Correspondence. Maintenance. Correspondence…about maintenance.”

Her head was starting to swim with the lies, or maybe it was the beer—she couldn’t be sure. She watched rather dizzily as Yaz tilted her head, considering.

“Sounds like you’re just making up things to throw me off.”

“Maybe I am,” the Doctor retorted, and took another long draft of her ginger beer. Was it rude, she wondered, to get drunk in front of a guest? Maybe if she got rid of her fast enough, it wouldn’t matter. “Why’re you here, Yaz?”

Yaz’s expression morphed into confusion. “You invited me.”

“Please.” The Doctor scoffed. “We both know Grace invited you. Thinks I need friends, or maybe she thinks you need friends—I honestly can’t tell. I’m not asking that. I want to know why you came.”

Yaz stared at her. “I’m not…sure I know what you mean.”

“Oh, c’mon!” The can, almost empty, clattered to the counter, and it was only the Doctor’s clumsy grab that kept it from spilling. “You know who I am. You know what I’ve done. Everybody in the universe knows who lives in this house. Even my own bloody maid is terrified of me. So tell me, why on earth would you come visit me, willingly, and alone?”

For a long moment, Yaz just looked at her. Then she dropped her gaze, and gave the smallest of shrugs.

“Grace isn’t scared of you.”

“Grace—” the Doctor started, then fell silent. What was there to say about Grace? Grace had seen the Doctor at the near lowest of lows. Pretty hard to fear someone who couldn’t hold herself together long enough to last without a monthly mental check up. “Grace is different. She used to—work with me.”

“Really?” Yaz’s head rose again, interest sparking. “Work with you on what?”

“Not important,” the Doctor said hastily, and raised her drink to swallow the last sips. “But she knows me. You don’t. Which is why it’s pretty stupid of you to be up here at this hour, no offense.”

“What, seven in the evening?” Yaz replied, a smile poking through. Then her eyes dropped once more to regard the Doctor’s outfit—or lack thereof. “Honestly, you don’t seem like the murdering type.”

It wasn’t an insult, but it hit the Doctor in the gut all the same. She suppressed a flinch, then abruptly pushed herself off the counter and turned to the fridge. Forget niceties—if Yaz wasn’t going to leave, she was going to have another drink. At least that way, she’d ensure that she would never come back.

“I’m not,” she said shortly— _lies, lies, lies_ —and pulled open the fridge door, going immediately for the rows of ginger beer that took up at least two shelves. “Well—doesn’t matter. It’s weird that you’re here, is my point. Anybody else would have just not shown up.”

“I told you,” Yaz said, this time with an impatient lilt to her tone, “I’m not most people.”

The Doctor turned, and fell back against the fridge door, forcing it shut. “Most people are most people. Besides, I’m not good company. I’m not going to tell you Time Lord secrets, or show you around the house. I’m going to do what I do every evening, and you can watch, if you want.”

Yaz frowned. “What do you do every evening?”

“I—” the Doctor began, then hesitated. Truth be told, big as her words might be, she wasn’t so far beyond social niceties so as to ignore Yaz completely. She seemed a kind person, unfortunately so, and the Doctor had always been weak in the face of kind people. Especially humans, who had the terrible habit of doing it so _naively_. 

“—I play chess.”

Yaz wrinkled her nose. “Chess? With one person.”

“Of course.” The Doctor tapped the side of her head with two fingers. “Best player there is, me. I play all sorts of chess. Even one man. More interesting with two, though. Do you play chess?”

Now it was Yaz’s turn to hesitate. “Uh—I mean, I have a couple—”

“Good.” Ginger beer in hand, the Doctor brushed by, pausing only to turn and gesture towards the living room. “C’mon. Chess set’s in there. Now, are you playing, or are you leaving?” 

Yaz stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, she pushed herself off of the counter and followed the Doctor through the kitchen and into the living room.

—————

The Doctor didn’t start losing until she was eight games and eight beers in. By then, she could no longer see the board, and Yaz was more of blurry outline than a person. 

“M’check,” she slurred, and pushed her queen forward.

“That’s a pawn, and you just put him in position to be taken by my king,” Yaz informed her, amusement seeping through her tone.

The Doctor blinked in surprise, then squinted. “Did I?”

“Yes.” Yaz shook her head—or at least, that was what the Doctor thought she was doing—and moved her king to capture the pawn. The Doctor watched glumly as she moved the pawn off the chessboard and to the side.

“Was that my last piece?” she asked, swaying slightly in place. She could feel the drinks working their effect, dragging at her eyelids and leadening her body.

“No.” Yaz smiled, amusement quirking her lips. “You still have your queen. Haven’t used her the whole game.”

“Oh.” The Doctor opened her mouth to add something else, and instead yawned. “That’s…unfortunate.”

Distantly, she could feel Yaz watching her closely, as if waiting for her to do something. She couldn’t imagine what. She tried to latch onto this new information—she had a queen, which was a nice surprise—and use it to her advantage, but nothing came. She couldn’t focus for the blur of the room and the sogginess of her own head. In the late-night quiet, she could feel darkness gathering at the corners of her mind, sinking her hearts. Nightmares, lying in wait, like they always did.

“Doctor, are you asleep?”

Yaz’s head jerked the Doctor into wakefulness. Her chin jolted up and she blinked rapidly, trying to clear her brain.

“No,” she lied, and to prove it, moved her queen. Or rather, tried to. Instead, she only knocked him off the board. Yaz watched as she fumbled for him, and then reached out a gentle hand to still her.

“I think you should go to bed,” she told her in a soft voice. “Can you show me where your bedroom is?”

Weak, one voice cried desperately, while the other piped up with unadulterated longing at the thought of her bed. In that moment, she wanted nothing more. She just didn’t want Yaz to get her there.

“—can handle it myself,” she mumbled and launched to her feet—too hard. She immediately stumbled, and in a flash Yaz was on her feet as well, steadying her with a firm hand.

“Doctor.” Her voice was affirmative, like the police officer she secretly was. Secretly? The Doctor couldn’t recall. People didn’t do undercover anymore. Or maybe they did, and she just hadn’t noticed. “Just tell me where it is.”

“Down the hall,” she muttered, only to wince. “But I’m—don’ need it, really. M’fine.”

“Sure,” Yaz laughed, and before the Doctor could protest, took her arm and began to guide her slowly in the right direction, or at least the Doctor thought it was the right direction. The house had grown dark while they played, and it was infecting her mind, swirling her thoughts into a low, bubbling panic.

She didn’t want to be alone in the dark. Hated it, feared it with all her might, couldn’t bear the thought of facing—

“I can stay, if you want.” Yaz’s voice, hesitant and awkward, cut through her anxious thoughts, and it was only then that the Doctor realized she might have voiced her worries aloud.

“No,” she said desperately, and just to prove she was serious, forced herself to stand on her own, pushing away from Yaz’s shoulder to balance on two feet. It didn’t entirely work, but she proved lucky—the moment she fell was the moment they arrived, and she only collapsed upon her bed in a flurry of blankets.

“Doctor—” Yaz shifted before her, uncertain and probably, the Doctor thought with a wash of guilt, uncomfortable. “I’m going to phone my mum, okay? Let her know I’m staying.”

“No,” the Doctor repeated, this time with more force. “Don’t—don’t stay. I don’t—”

But sleep had already sunk its claws into her back, and it was dragging her farther and farther down, into a whirlpool of darkness. “I don’t need it. I don’t—”

“Okay,” came Yaz’s voice, but the Doctor never got to hear her final resolution, for in that moment her head hit the pillows and her thoughts faded, melting away into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, i wonder who the doctor's most vocal advocate is
> 
> also yall just dropping by to say im also on tumblr at https://hetzi-clutch.tumblr.com/ and i have been drawing a lot of art for this fic which i may start posting? if ppl want to see idk. but ye if i do it'll be posted on tumblr and tagged dop art!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i will update mondays, wednesdays, and fridays  
> me, on sunday: whoops
> 
> anyway im impatient so I am yeeting another chapter! things def start to get like,,,,interesting here. also thank you for all the lovely comments! i havent had time to respond, but i 100% appreciate every one!

One week after the representative of the High Council visited the Doctor, she was deemed well enough to move out of her hospital bed, and into a proper room. She wasn’t sure who exactly signed the release, but she didn’t complain; with no life support machine except for an unobtrusive device on her wrist, she was free to move about the building and talk to whomever she might meet.

Which, perhaps, was why she didn’t meet anybody.

On the first day of her relative freedom, she left her room and, wrist device beeping softly, moved down the hallway, passing closed doors and expansive windows, all of which opened upon the Citadel below. She had no idea where she was, other than within the main cluster of Citadel offices, which only meant that she probably somewhere below the High Council and somewhere above the less important ground offices. This told her next to nothing.

Hence, wandering. 

The first hallway yielded nothing. Neither did the second, nor the third, and by the time she reached the fourth, she was starting to flag. Even her wrist device had begun to beep with ever increasing urgency, and by the time she rounded a corner into the fifth hall, it had started to chirp a warning to ‘please refrain from strenuous physical activity’.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered, and wrenched her sleeve down over the device, only to grimace as she stumbled slightly, fatigue getting the best of her. “I don’t need—”

“Oi! You!”

The Doctor froze. Then, slowly, she turned.

The nurse—funny, she had never gotten her name—stalked towards her, every inch bristling with anger. “You ought to be in your room! You still aren’t fully recovered.”

“Uh—” The Doctor edged backwards, but it was too late. The nurse was upon her, and with a firm hand she grabbed her wrist and began to steer her back towards her room. “I was discharged.”

The nurse clucked. “From in-patient care. Just because you’ve been moved to private quarters doesn’t mean your treatment has ended. You need to _rest_.”

“I am resting!” the Doctor protested, even as the nurse led her down the hallway she’d just come. “A walk is restful. I was honestly enjoying it, and—”

She was interrupted by a particularly urgent beep from the device, and fell silent, casting it a glare. The nurse only shook her head and pursed her lips.

“You still shouldn’t be out,” she continued as they rounded another corner. “You’ll never get better in time for the ceremonies, and goodness knows the entire Citadel will be expecting you. Especially with what the Time Lords—”

“Hang on.” The Doctor stopped, so forcefully that the nurse, leading from behind, nearly rammed into her. “What ceremonies? What am I supposed to do?”

The nurse sighed, rather dramatically. “Why, you’re meant to appear in them, dear. Don’t you know? You’re the face of our victory. You’re the one who saved us. Of course the public wants to thank you.”

It was funny, the Doctor thought, how the nurse had so quickly shifted from uncertainty-bordering-on-fear, to sycophantic awe and gratitude. Vaguely, she wondered how aggressively the High Council had been spinning out propaganda in the weeks that she had been ill. 

“I don’t want them to thank me,” she told her and, just to prove she didn’t need steering, started off again, leaving the nurse to catch up. “And that sounds like a load of nonsense. I’m not well enough to do ceremonies, clearly.”

“You will be in two weeks time,” the nurse told her tersely. “Trust me, the High Council have been very clear about your treatment. They’ll be coming to check on you even more, I reckon, in the coming days, which—”

“I don’t want them to check on—”

“—is why you should be in bed,” the nurse finished loudly with a glare and a huff, just as they came upon her door. “Besides, you already have a visitor. That’s why I came to fetch you. And of course, because you really should be resting.”

Her monitor beeped in seeming agreement, but the Doctor ignored it to stare, dumbfounded.

“Visitor?” she asked. Hope fluttered briefly in her hearts— _friends_ —only to be immediately squashed when she recalled that she didn’t have anybody who might visit her. Not outside of the High Council. “Who?”

The nurse sighed again, as if it were obvious. “Who do you think, dear? Only the person who fought tooth and nail against your execution.”

With that, and before the Doctor could respond, she turned and pushed the door open, holding it wide for the Doctor to step through. She did so, dizzy with confusion, her monitor beeping softly on her wrist.

She saw the visitor the moment she stepped inside. The visitor, too, seemed to hear her coming, and turned at the creak of the door, a coquettish smile upon her lips. She raised an eyebrow, and pressed a hand to her hip, wrinkling the pristine, purple fabric of her dress. In the other hand, an umbrella tapped the floor.

“Hello, Doctor.” The Master smiled at her, all teeth. “However nice to see you.”

The Doctor stared for three long seconds. Then, without warning and without sound, she launched herself at the her.

—————

In her dreams, she stood on the bridge of a battleship whose name she couldn’t remember, and watched a star system burn itself to pieces. Dalek ships swirled through space, and the entire timeline shuddered towards excruciating defeat and she stood there, throat dry, hearts pounding, and tried to remember how to win.

A temporal shift. Slice off the nasty endings, shape the timelines toward victory. In her dreams, as she stood on the bridge of that ship, alarms blaring behind, nostrils filled with noxious smoke, she reached out with shaky fingers and wrapped herself into a timeline that would save them all. Like a surgeon with a scalpel, only her hands were trembling and her mind spun in the opposite direction, and the world around her was a cacophony of fire and she couldn’t—she couldn’t—

In a panic she heaved the timeline shut, fingers slipping over the edges, and for a moment, the world stopped—and then it started again. And then it stopped. And then it started, again and again, like a skipped record eternally trapped on a single note, and only too late did she realize that she had fumbled the trick, and doomed herself with it. Herself, and the entire fleet.

“No, no, no—” she tried to say, but the words stuck in her throat, as did everything else. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She stood locked in a single, repetitious moment, stuck on the bridge of a burning battleship, watching the world around her fall to bits again and again and again, as smoke filled her lungs and the alarms blared, and when she opened her mouth to scream, time only compressed around her, trapping her in a single second for eternity.

_Tick—tick—tick—_

She awoke to her own screams, and thrashed in a panic, trapped in a cocoon of impossibly heavy blankets. For a second, she didn’t know where she was—stuck in a moment maybe, glued to a battle that would never end thanks to her own idiotic mistake, and she couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe—

“Doctor!” An alarmed voice cut through her panic, and a moment later desperate hands pulled at the blankets, freeing her. “Doctor—are you alright?”

“I—” The Doctor gasped, cool air filling her lungs, and shot up in bed, looking around wildly. For half a second, she expected smoke and alarms and the claustrophobic moment to cycle back again, but it didn’t. Time marched forward. The darkness around her blinded, and then faded into shapes and shadows. One of them, when she looked up, was watching her with large, worried eyes.

“Yaz?” The Doctor blinked as her eyes adjusted. “Why are you here?”

The light from the nearby clock cast green light across Yaz’s face. She chewed her lip uncertainly, as if she didn’t know how to respond.

“You asked me to stay,” she said at last, as if admitting some crime. “So I called my mum. Told her I’d be back in the morning.”

“No, I didn’t,” the Doctor said automatically, and glanced to the clock. 3:27 shone brightly in the dark. “I mean—I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have listened.”

“Well, you seemed in a right state.” Yaz sagged slightly, as if satisfied the Doctor wasn’t going to berate her further. “You still do, if I’m being honest. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” the Doctor said quickly, which wasn’t entirely true. Still, what else was she meant to say? Her dreams were impossible to describe—a cacophony of living horror that melded through time itself, turning her own reality on its head. Just as the war had, long ago. “It was just a nightmare. Everybody gets them.”

“Yeah, but not like that.” Yaz looked at her for a moment, something hesitant in her eyes, and then her gaze firmed and she moved to the bed, plopping down near the Doctor’s feet. Immediately, she moved them, though she wasn’t sure why. “I’ve never heard somebody scream like that. Do you want to talk about it?”

The Doctor thought back to her dream—the details already thankfully slipping away—and shuddered. “No,” she said. “It’s not a big deal, Yaz. I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have woken you up.”

Yaz smiled slightly, her face just barely visible in the ghostly light of the alarm clock. “I was already awake. Your sofa isn’t that comfortable, you know. And you really should keep more cushions on it.”

The Doctor winced guiltily. She thought back to the rows of guest rooms leading off the hallway, and wondered if Yaz had bothered to search for them. Perhaps she hadn’t felt comfortable. Humans were funny like that—and it wasn’t as if the Doctor had shown her. Besides, most of them probably needed a good dusting. When was the last time she’d had somebody stay the night? She couldn’t recall.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, and wondered how many times would be enough. She had a feeling she’d accomplished her original plan—Yaz would never come back again. Though that didn’t explain why she was still here at half past three in the morning. “Honestly, you shouldn’t listen to anything I say drunk. Load of nonsense, all of it.”

Yaz frowned. “You still beat me seven times at chess.”

“Oh. Well—” she waved a dismissive hand— “you’re human.”

Yaz’s expression crinkled in affront, but she didn’t pursue the insult. “Still, though. I dunno. You seemed pretty serious.”

“Did I?” She couldn’t recall. Everything was a blur, including the chess games, right up until the terrifyingly vivid dream. Then again, her dreams always seemed to run particularly vivid. “Must have been out of it. Sorry. I don’t usually…drink that much.”

Which was a lie, but Yaz didn’t need to know that. Not that she appeared to believe it. When the Doctor glanced over, she found Yaz watching her with a knowing look, as if she hadn’t bought a single word. 

“Sure,” she said, and settled back, propping her palms flat against the bedsheets. “Um…did you need me to…?”

She left the sentence hanging awkwardly, and the Doctor had no idea how it was meant to finish. Even worse, it tumbled out with all the enthusiasm of a laundry machine, as if Yaz wanted to do anything but. The Doctor could only sympathize.

Of course, Grace would con somebody like Yaz into visiting her. Somebody with a good heart and even kinder intentions, who would stay the night even when she didn’t want to, just because the Doctor was pathetic enough to need it. Guilt swept through her, hot and sticky enough to gag on.

“No,” she said quickly, and reached forward, yanking the strewn covers back to her chest. She clutched them there like a shield, as if the darkness might tear them away. “I’m fine. And I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have stayed.”

“Well, I’m not going to leave now.” Yaz eyed her uncertainly, as if trying to dig past the words and pry out the meaning behind it. The Doctor hated it. “It’s half past three. And no offense, but I don’t really want to sleep on the sofa.”

“There are guest bedrooms,” the Doctor said immediately, only to recall the thick layer of dust that surely covered each one. Internally, she cursed. No way out. Just like her dream. “I could find you some blankets, or—”

It would be just as rude to make her sleep on the floor. Or expel her to the couch, or to a guest bedroom that hadn’t been occupied since the 1970s. None of this would work.

After a moment of desperate, agonizing silence, Yaz sighed, and made to stand. She was still, the Doctor noticed suddenly, in the clothes she’d come to visit in. 

“Wait, Yaz,” she called, just as she reached the door. Within her chest, guilt and awful embarrassment warred, and as Yaz paused, she hesitated, caught between the claws of both.

“You can stay here, if you’d like,” she finished quietly, and hated herself for it. Hated too, for how pathetically she longed for company, for the pure relief of knowing that she wouldn’t have to face the dark alone. “My bed is huge and—you shouldn’t have to sleep on the sofa.”

“Are you sure?” Yaz half-turned to face her, her expression unreadable. She didn’t look particularly enthusiastic about the idea. Probably, she was regretting her entire decision to come, and the Doctor couldn’t even blame her. What kind of person got drunk in front of a guest, only to pass out and wake them up at three in the morning to their nightmares?

She would. That was the kind of person the Doctor was.

Yaz probably didn’t want to stay with the Doctor, but the Doctor had the feeling she wanted to stay on the sofa less.

“Yes,” she said, and moved to the far side of the bed, leaving a large gap for Yaz to occupy. “I don’t mind. Really.”

Yaz watched her for a moment, gauging. Then, she gave a small shrug and crossed the small space to the bed. “Thanks. I’ll be honest, your sofa is really uncomfortable.”

“Yeah.” The Doctor waited until Yaz was in bed, making sure there was enough space between them to be comfortable—company or not, her comfort ended at physical contact—then rolled over to face the far wall. Beside her, she felt the bed shift as Yaz made herself comfortable.

“Yaz?”

“Yeah?” 

“Thanks. For…waking me up.” She had no desire to face the darkness again, but sleep still tugged at her, dragging her eyelids down. Besides, the sun wasn’t due to rise for hours. For now, darkness reigned, and the only way out was through.

At least, she thought, she could be a little braver with company.

For a moment, Yaz didn’t reply. Then she gave an enormous yawn, and the Doctor heard the bed creak as she rolled over.

“S’fine. I get nightmares too, sometimes.”

She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t even say good night. The Doctor lay on her side, parsing this surprising new information, until she heard Yaz’s breathing slow. Only then did she too give in to the heaviness of her eyelids, and let herself be dragged once more into unconsciousness.

—————

“Doctor! Doctor!”

The nurse lunged for her, but she was too late. The Doctor hit the Master square in the chest, and they went down together in a tangle of limbs, crashing painfully against the edge of the bed. Distantly, she could feel the nurse’s desperate hands upon her, grabbing at the back of her shirt, but up close her ears rang with the Master’s laughter and the sound of her monitor, beeping at a frantic rate.

“I’LL KILL YOU!” she hollered, fury rising up in her, blinding. “I’LL KILL YOU, YOU BASTARD, I’LL KILL YOU!”

Her fists came down, hammering against the Master’s nose, who only laughed louder, even as her lip split and blood burst forth. The Master responded with a sharp jab to the ribs, courtesy of her umbrella, and the Doctor hunched, cursing, but didn’t let up. 

It was the monitor that won, in the end. It continued to beep, higher and higher, and it was only when the Doctor sucked in a breath did she register the warning it was issuing.

“Oxygen levels low. Please cease strenuous physical activity. Please cease—”

She didn’t realize she’d fallen limp until the Master pushed her away with a disgusted huff.

“Do pick yourself off the floor.” She rose with a cluck of her tongue and, with one pointed toe, nudged the Doctor painfully in the side. “You’re flagging.”

“I—hate you,” the Doctor gasped as the nurse slid to her knees beside her, a reprimand already on her tongue.

“I can’t _believe_ such a display,” she hissed as one hand hand reached out to take the Doctor’s limp wrist, holding it up to check her vitals. “It’s almost as if you don’t want to recover.”

“Oh, don’t mind her.” The Master’s voice, smooth and serpentine, slithered over her ears. “She’s always been one for dramatics. You should have seen her last body. Curls to his shoulders. Or was it the body before?”

She trailed off into faux contemplative silence, as if waiting for the Doctor to reply. She didn’t. She only concentrated on breathing, which was hard enough. Her hearts hammered in her ears at a breakneck rate, and for several long moments, she could do no more than suck in breath after thin breath, until at last, the nurse sighed.

“Well, she’ll live.” She dropped the Doctor’s wrist back to her side, and the Doctor felt a rustle of movement as she stood. “Bloody stupid of her, but she just needs a moment.”

“Excellent.” The Master’s voice cut through, positively smug. “You can leave her with me, dearie. We have plenty to talk about, us girls. You know how it is.”

The Doctor sensed, rather than heard, the nurse’s hesitation. “It might be better if—”

“Oh _no_ , dear.” The Master’s voice, though coated in a veneer of manners, nevertheless lilted dangerously. “Trust me. We value our privacy.”

For a moment, there came no response. Then the nurse sighed again, surrendering, and her footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor. A second later, the sound of the door creaking shut split the near-silence.

The moment it closed, the Master knelt beside the Doctor, lips brushing the tip of her ear.

“C’mon, Doctor. Time to get up.”

Without looking, the Doctor’s hand shot out to shove her away, but she was weak, and the Master caught it easily. She folded the Doctor’s fingers in her own, and then, without asking, pulled her stubbornly into a sitting position. The Doctor, weak as a child, could only allow herself to be moved about, though inside she seethed.

“G’off me, Koschei,” she growled through gritted teeth, but the Master only laughed.

“Well, I would if you could put a bit of welly into it,” she told her, clucking her tongue as the Doctor slumped forward. Her hand came out to catch her shoulder, and with a gentleness the Doctor could only assume to be faked, eased her back into a sitting position. “And please, let’s not have the nicknames. If you need a title, I go by Missy now. Far more elegant. _Theta_.”

“Shut up.” The Doctor pushed her hand away and forced herself to balance in a sitting position, even as her head spun and her chest heaved weakly. “Why are you here?”

Missy chuckled, as if it were obvious. “Oh, come now. Why wouldn’t I be? You and I have plenty to do together, you know. After all, it’s thanks to me that you’re alive.”

Fury rose once more in the Doctor’s chest, and it was all she could do to keep from hurling herself once more in Missy’s direction. Instead, she tamped it down, pressing it into her voice.

“You advocated for me,” she growled, voice trembling. She wasn’t sure if it was the anger, or something else. “It was you. Of course it would be. What do you want from me?”

Perhaps it was the genuine honesty of the question, or perhaps it was the hideous crack of her voice on the last word, but for a moment, Missy didn’t reply. She only crouched there, one hand lingering on the Doctor’s shoulder, her fingers poised as if any moment she might dig her nails in.

“You know, I ask myself that too,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper of air. “I could have tossed you to the dogs. They were going to let you die, you know. They were going to turn off your life support.”

The Doctor thought back to the machines she had been hooked up to, the monitors and IVs, and suppressed a shudder. Would it have been better? she wondered. It would have been swift, surely—maybe even painless. It would have been over. All of it.

“Why didn’t you do it?” she whispered.

For a moment, silence. Then, Missy laughed, a low rustle in her ear.

“Because you did it, Doctor.” Her fingers clenched, and her nails began to dig into her shoulder. “You saved us. You destroyed half the universe.”

The Doctor flinched and she laughed again, nails digging harder. “All that power. The rage it must have taken, at both the Time Lords and the Daleks. For a moment, you were the most powerful being in the universe.”

Her voice dropped, so low the Doctor had to strain to hear it.

“And all you had to do was become me.”

The Doctor reacted instantaneously; her hand whipped up and connected with Missy’s collarbone, shoving so hard that Missy fell backwards, laughing.

“Oh, your face!” She wiped tears from her eyes and rebalanced, then pushed herself to her feet. She towered above the Doctor, one foot tap-tapping out a rhythm against the floor.

“All that power,” she said again, and this time her voice was hard with rage, the kind familiar to the Doctor. Wild and restrained, as if it were just begging for the moment. “All that power, and it went to you. So you know what I thought, Doctor?”

The Doctor didn’t look up. She only stared miserably at the floor, hands hanging limply in her lap, and wondered what on earth she had done to deserve this.

“I realized that if somebody like you could do such a thing, maybe that was what I had to do. I had to meet you in the middle. Play by the rules, or at least, by the ones I wanted to.”

At this, the Doctor craned her head to look up, pinning Missy with a bleary gaze.

“What do you mean?” Her voice was hoarse with almost-tears.

Missy didn’t immediately answer. She stooped to pick up her umbrella, then straightened and gave the Doctor a smile. The point of the umbrella found the floor and began to tap, a steady click-click.

“It means that politics are the name of the game, Doctor.” The umbrella continued to tap. The Doctor stared at Missy, comprehension slowly sinking in. “It means the universe is about to change, with the Time Lords on top, and you leading that charge. Or—” she paused, and chuckled. “Leading is the wrong word. More akin to a dog on a leash, I suppose. But somebody needs to be there to point you in the right direction.”

She sniffed, and picked up her umbrella, hanging it over her shoulder. “Nobody cares about the past anymore, Doctor. They don’t care about who I am, or what I’ve done. There’s a power vacuum, and somebody has to fill it. Luckily, I’m here to help you.”

“But I don’t want to fill it,” the Doctor said stupidly. “I don’t want this.”

Missy considered this for a too-long moment. Then she looked to the Doctor, a thin smile spreading across her face. Sharp, like a predator.

“Oh, old friend,” she said. “But I do.”

With that she turned and, heels click-clacking on the floor, swept out of the room, leaving the Doctor to watch her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so tbh yaz in this fic is that friend that you keep like embarrassing yourself in front of and its just awkward but she's a good person so she takes it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!! thank you to all who have commented, I really appreciate them! I am, as always, behind on answering, but hopefully I'll catch up this week! In the meantime, next chapter will be out friday.

Sunlight was streaming through the windows by the time the Doctor awoke, this time from a dreamless sleep. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and raised her head slightly, squinting at the light flashing through the glass, then groaned and dropped back to the pillows. Her skull throbbed something fierce, and her entire body felt wrung out, as if she had been put through a laundry machine.

Or perhaps the emotional equivalent. After all, it wasn’t often she spilled her guts to a stranger, even if on accident. Yaz had seen her in a state very few people had ever witnessed, and she wasn’t keen on repeating the incident.

Or facing the aftermath.

When she rolled over, however, the other side of the bed was empty. The covers were pulled back and rumpled, and on the bedside table, there sat a note. The Doctor stared at it for several seconds, then leaned over and swiped it between two fingers.

_Doctor—sorry I couldn’t stay. Had a shift, and couldn’t be late. Hope you feel better._

That was it. A brief, almost formal note, practically seeping with the awkwardness of the situation the Doctor had gotten them into. She read it once, then again, then groaned and crumpled the note in her fist.

Poor Grace. She’d only wanted to do a bit of good. The Doctor would have to speak with her later—perhaps pass an apology on to Yaz. Rassilon knew she deserved it. 

The Doctor buried her face in her pillow and stayed there for several long seconds, wallowing. Sunlight shone, and in the hallway she could hear the distant sounds of Marie moving about, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Guilt crept like vines across her chest, dripping with the sort of loneliness that she had become accustomed to over the years. The kind that reminded her that she wasn’t wanted, not here, and not throughout the rest of the universe. People feared her, or back home they revered her, and she couldn’t stomach either reaction. At least she deserved the former, though that didn’t make it sting any less.

Yaz had been far too nice to her. The Doctor couldn’t help but be relieved that she had finally done the smart thing and left, but she also couldn’t help the ache that opened up when she remembered that she had nobody left to talk to except Marie.

And Marie hated her.

“Idiot,” the Doctor muttered, and forced her face deeper until her pillow, until it became hard to breathe. “Lousy, stupid—”

“Ma’am?”

Perfect timing.

The Doctor didn’t even bother to raise her head. She didn’t have the energy. “Yes, Marie?”

She could practically sense Marie dithering uncertainly in the doorway. “The—the Time Lords left a message for you, ma’am. Something about a representative…?”

Of course. How could the Doctor have forgotten? She stifled another groan, then rolled over to face Marie, painfully aware of how much of a mess she looked.

“It’s not a telepathic link?”

Marie shook her head. “Physical, ma’am. It’s in the kitchen.”

“Fine.” The Doctor swallowed, unsticking a bitter lump in her throat. “I’ll get it in a moment. Thank you.”

“Nothing of it, ma’am.” She was gone before the Doctor could respond, coattails fluttering in her wake.

A message. The Master. Vaguely, the Doctor wondered if life were supposed to be this painful, or if she’d just rolled a weighted die. 

It took her twenty minutes to make it into the kitchen, and she didn’t bother putting on trousers. It wasn’t worth it—nobody was coming around, not after last night. 

The message lay on the counter, a nondescript chip the size, shape, and color of a quarter, inscribed with swirling Gallifreyan. She picked it up, flipped it once, then lay it flat on her palm and stared at it. Whatever was inside, she didn’t want to hear it. She probably didn’t have to. There was nothing stopping her from tossing the chip in the trash, and doing the same for the next one that would inevitably arrive.

But in doing so, she would only place herself off guard, and in the face of the Master, that was never where she wanted to be. 

So with a sigh, she nipped the coin between two fingers, and pressed it to the side of her head.

Immediately, information poured through. She winced automatically—any kind of telepathic connection was still hard for her, no matter how small—then grit her teeth and braced herself for the onslaught of unpleasant news.

_“Time Lord known as the Master due to arrive to Earth in seven linear days. He will be received at your place of residence, and is expected to be treated with all the respect due to the representative of a major quadrant. He will be participating—”_

It was the ‘all respect due’ that got her. She couldn’t help it. The message teemed with arrogance, the kind that came either from the High Council or the Master himself, and she wasn’t in the mood to deal with either. With a groan, she snapped the connection shut and pressed a palm to her forehead, trying to soothe a burgeoning headache.

“Alright,” she muttered, trying to calm the slowly brewing panic in her chest. “This’ll be fine. This all will be fine. I just need to—”

Survive it, she thought grimly, but that thought didn’t do much to help. After all, surviving was all she had done, during the war and after it.

And look where it had gotten her.

—————

“Just stay still—”

“Ow!” The Doctor hissed and jumped, drawing a line of curses from the tailor. “Could be careful with that thing!”

“I was,” the tailor—a young man, with, the Doctor jealously noted, bright ginger hair—snapped at her, and stepped back, glaring at her. His eyes roamed over her outfit, down to the robes which reached the top of her feet, then to the ridiculously high collar, and then he sighed and lowered the needle. “You’re done, anyway. ‘Least, as done as I can get it with you moving around.”

“I wasn’t moving around,” the Doctor lied, and ignored the tailor’s scoff to turn towards the mirror. It was the first she had really taken the time to look since she’d regenerated, and it was…odd. Not particularly bad, but different. Particularly the hair, which fell into her face often. She couldn’t decide if she liked it. 

“Are you done yet?” The tailor’s bored voice pierced her concentration and she turned, swallowing a huff.

“Thought you were done,” she retorted, not caring just how rude she came off. Let her be known as the hero who wouldn’t kiss babies and wave to crowds. She didn’t care. It was bad enough she had to be known as a hero at all. 

“I am.” The tailor raised an eyebrow. “But I’m supposed to show you to the pavilion. Unless you know the way.” By the look on his face, he could tell that she didn’t. For a moment, she considered lying again. Then she decided that it wasn’t worth it.

“Fine,” she muttered, and waited until he turned around to stick her tongue out at his back. Immature, maybe, but incredibly satisfying.

The pavilion was already starting to fill by the time they arrived, and though she slowed, scanning the crowds in dull curiosity, the tailor didn’t allow her to dally. He charged a path straight through the crowds, and dumped her off at the front rows, where the most prestigious guests had their seats reserved.

“Here,” he told her shortly, then turned, without even waiting for a thank you. Which was probably good; she hadn’t been planning on giving him one.

“Nice fellow,” she muttered, and watched his ginger head disappear into the crowds, wishing vaguely that she could have been more lucky in the regeneration cycle. It wasn’t fair, how some people seemed to come by ginger so easily, while others had to work for it.

“You look rather jealous.”

The Doctor froze. Then, slowly, she turned around.

“Hello, Missy,” she said in an even voice. “You look purple.”

Missy smirked, and waved a hand over her robes. “What, this old thing? I couldn’t resist. Sometimes you have to go with what suits you.” She raised an eyebrow at the Doctor’s robes, patterned in red and gold. “I can see your tailor chose a different route.”

“Shut up,” the Doctor said automatically, if only because it was easy, not to mention satisfying. “What are you doing here?”

“At this ceremony, or in this spot?”

“This spot,” the Doctor answered. She already knew the answer to the first one. In the weeks that the Doctor had been convalescing, she’d learned, Missy had been climbing the ranks. In arguing for the Doctor’s life, she had skillfully managed to insert herself as a champion for the people’s champion, campaigning for a pardon, for a pedestal, and for absolute Gallifreyan rule across the cosmos.

And of course, Missy would rule the biggest slice of the pie. 

For answer, Missy leaned forward slightly, revealing the name carved into the chair. The Doctor read it, then snorted in disbelief.

“So they seated us together.”

“Obviously.” Missy smiled, eyelashes fluttering. “We are, after all, partners in this endeavor.”

“We are _not_ ,” the Doctor snapped. “I have nothing to do with you. Or, for that matter, that ridiculous plan to rule the universe. Which won’t pass, by the way. It goes against everything the Time Lords believe in.”

“Does it?” Missy’s smile grew wider. “Dear Doctor, you of all people should know that war changes things. It changes people. Maybe it’s about time we woke up and realized that the universe needs a firm hand.”

“Whose?” the Doctor retorted, only to pause as someone behind her coughed impatiently. With a huff, she slid into her seat, freeing the aisle, then leaned towards Missy. Her voice dropped to a low whisper. “The Time Lords’? Yours? Because I know what you’re about, Missy. You’re not in this for any good. You’re in this for your own selfish reasons, just like you always are. So stop playing like you aren’t.”

For a moment, it actually seemed as if she had breached something. Missy stared at her for a beat too long, mouth slightly open as if she’d readied a retort and forgotten what it was. Something flashed in her eyes, not anger, and not the madness she usually wore, but—something else. The Doctor couldn’t place it. 

“People of the Citadel!” A voice boomed across the pavilion, slicing through their two-person showdown. “Please, take your seats! The ceremony is about to begin.”

For a moment, Missy kept the Doctor’s gaze. Then, slowly, she shut her mouth and shook her head.

“I think we’d best pay attention, shouldn’t we?” she said, and when the Doctor opened her mouth to reply pressed a finger to her lips. “Please, Doctor. Don’t ruin the niceties.”

The Doctor glared at her, but didn’t say anything. The voice was booming again, welcoming the crowds, and after a moment she sucked in a breath and turned to face the front, overwhelmingly aware of the uncomfortably heavy collar which sat around her neck.

The announcer was still speaking, voice echoing across the large space. “People of Citadel, thank you for your attendance! We are proud to welcome you to today’s ceremonial proceedings. We have several things on the agenda, but first and foremost, we would like to introduce our esteemed president, and sitting leader of the High Council—”

He paused, waiting for a smattering of polite applause. This was routine for the people of the Citadel; nothing overwhelming, everything restrained. The Doctor had to make an effort not to roll her eyes.

“—Lord President Rassilon!”

Another round of polite applause, which quickly died down into awed silence as the president took the stage. Even in the aftermath of a war that had nearly ruined the universe, many, if not all of the Time Lords stood in awe of Rassilon. It was impossible not to; he was too revered throughout history to view him as anything less than an almost-god. It reminded the Doctor a little of a particular human society, far back in history. The Egyptians, who had believed their Pharaohs to be the equivalents of gods among men. 

If anybody could be held in the same esteem, it was Lord President Rassilon. And he knew it.

But the Doctor knew what he had done, and though she didn’t look away when he came onstage, she did shift uncomfortably, her hearts picking up speed. Such a thing had been happening a lot lately; the nurse called it vestigial panic, or the result of immense trauma.

The Doctor didn’t call it anything at all. She just tamped it down, and hoped it would go away on its own.

“Alright, Doctor?” Missy whispered in a sly voice, and the Doctor shot her a glare.

“I’m fine,” she said stiffly, and wondered just how much of her inner turmoil was showing on her face. She’d thought she’d been good at hiding it, but it wasn’t as if she’d had anybody with which to test out. “Shouldn’t you be paying attention?”

Missy studied her for a long moment, then gave a minuscule shrug and turned back to the front. The Doctor did as well, tuning in just in time to catch the tail end of Rassilon’s thank yous and commendations. Fortunately, she wasn’t included among them. This ceremony was only for the Time Lord elite; the High Council had much bigger plans for the Doctor’s public re-entrance back into Time Lord society. The very thought made her stomach twist.

“And now, the reason for why we are all here,” Rassilon concluded with a chuckle. His hands gripped the podium, the knuckles white. “Surely, you have all heard rumors as to our plans going forward. This evening, I am going to put them all to rest.”

Suspicion sparked in the Doctor’s hearts. Without thinking, she leaned forward, unconsciously mirroring the rest of the crowd. Everybody was leaning in, breath caught. Waiting.

Beside her, Missy let out a soft laugh.

“The universe is in ruin,” Rassilon declared, his voice firm, but appropriately weary. “Half of it is gone.”

The Doctor flinched.

“Prior to this war, the Time Lords swore never to involve themselves with the events of the universe. We would remain outside, passionless observers.”

Dread began to collect in the Doctor’s chest, like raindrops on a leaf. 

“In the wake of such destruction, something needs to change. _We_ need to change. The universe needs somebody to lead it. And we, with all our power, and all of our experience, are those most qualified to do it.”

The Doctor’s hearts dropped like twin stones. Her gut twisted, folding in on itself. She leaned back until her collar collided with the back of the chair, and felt moisture collect on her brow. Cold sweat. Funny, but it felt like she couldn’t breathe.

“No,” she whispered, even though she knew that it couldn’t help, it wouldn’t help— “But we can’t—”

Beside her, Missy chuckled. “Oh dear. When are you going to listen to me?”

The Doctor didn’t even look at her. She only stared, frozen in shock, as Rassilon spread his arms wide to an enraptured audience.

“Join me,” he declared, his voice booming, ‘in ensuring that the Great Time War stays the _L_ _ast_ Great Time War!”

This time, the audience cheered.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> erdfiuhdfgjdfgjk ok so goldfish brain meant i forgot to update yesterday so HERE we are now w an update! sorry for the delay, and I hope you all like the chapter

It took the Doctor two days to get up the courage to call Grace.

Actually, it took her three. Two to find the courage, and another day to dig up her phone number, which the Doctor had been given long ago, but never actually bothered to use. Why would she? Grace came to her, whether she wanted her to or not. 

Which only said plenty about the sort of friend the Doctor was. 

“Got you,” the Doctor muttered at last as she successfully unearthed the scribbled-down number from a pile of mail she never bothered to read. “Alright. Now, all I have to do is call. Easy. Humans do it all the time.”

Which was rather amazing, she reflected several moments later, as she stood with her feet planted and her hand hovering over the numbers. Calling people, steeling themselves to hear the voice on the other end. By all rights, it should have been simple. Except that she was hesitating, and she couldn’t figure out why.

“She’s your friend,” she hissed to herself, but the words didn’t ring as true as they should have. Sure, Grace considered the Doctor her friend—or had said as such in so many words. But had the Doctor ever treated her like a friend? She couldn’t recall—and perhaps that was the most troubling sign.

Perhaps it was about time she changed that. 

With a clenched jaw, the paper by now practically crumpled in her fist, she stabbed at the numbers on the screen. It only took her a moment—ridiculously short—before the call went through, and the line began to ring.

Easy. Only now she actually had to talk to her.

With a shaky sigh, the Doctor raised the phone to her ear and waited, half-dreading that Grace would answer, and half-dreading that she wouldn’t. If she wouldn’t, she could call again, but only Rassilon knew how much courage that would take.

“Hello?” Grace’s cheerful voice rung abruptly over the line, and the Doctor nearly dropped the phone.

“Uh, hiya, Grace.” Quickly, she scrambled into something that might have resembled nonchalance, straightening her back, evening her tone. “Thought I’d give you a call.”

“Doctor.” The single word contained far more surprise than it ought to, the Doctor thought ruefully. Then again, she wasn’t sure Grace could be blamed. “This is new. I don’t think you’ve ever used this number.”

“Yeah.” The Doctor closed her eyes and reached out, groping for the edge of the counter. She sagged against it, letting her whole body droop. “Er, I just wanted—about Yasmin Khan. I was wondering if you could pass on a message for me.”

“Sure, love.” Some of the surprise was fading, but not entirely. She could almost hear Grace leaning forward, interest piquing. “Did things go alright?”

“Sort of,” the Doctor hurried to say, then paused and forced herself to backtrack. “Well, no. I was rather rude. I’d like to apologize.”

“Oh.” Surprise once more. Was it really so hard to believe, the Doctor wondered, that she might occasionally apologize? “I could certainly do that. I’m not sure when I’ll see her again—I’ve been busy with this car headache—but I could—”

“Is your car still broken?” the Doctor said, only to realize too late that she’d interrupted. She winced as Grace paused, then let out a sigh.

“Yes, unfortunately,” she said. “Ryan’s been looking at it, but it might need more expensive repairs than he can do by himself. But of course, that’ll take money, and you know how—”

“I’ll do it,” the Doctor said immediately. Grace stopped, surprise echoing over the line.

“What?”

“I’ll do them,” the Doctor repeated, even as one part of her mind wondered just what the hell she was offering. She never left the house, not even to pick up her mail. Marie did that, and usually before she even woke up in the morning. “Just let me know when I can come down. And, er, your address.”

Six years, and she had never visited Grace. Six years, and she had never even bothered to find out where she lived. Inadequacy was starting to weigh on her like a load of bricks. Just what kind of a person was she?

“Um—” Grace’s surprise still hadn’t quite left, but to her credit, she recovered well. “Actually, that would be a huge relief. I didn’t know you knew anything about cars, Doctor.”

The Doctor snorted. “’Course I do. Know loads about cars, me. Even used to drive one. Er, and I’m a bit of a mechanic. Or at least, I was.”

Without thinking, she glanced toward the back hallway, at the end of which she knew her TARDIS sat. It had been a while since she’d gone to check up on the old girl. She was sleeping, the Doctor was pretty sure, or at least had been ever since she’d stopped visiting. Sometimes, she felt guilty for it. 

But there was something else that kept her away, something which she couldn’t quite name, but which sat solid in the pit of her stomach all the same. Dread, maybe, inexplicable and heavy, and the sort of guilt that spoke of long-forgotten friendships. Once, her ship had been her oldest friend. Now, even the console room reeked of war, and the battles they had gone through together. To step inside was akin to touching a hot stove; it burned, white hot memories seeping through her fingertips. On the rare occasions that she did step inside, she could never stay long, even though she knew the TARDIS missed her.

“Sorry,” she whispered, shame mingling with the bittersweet ache of memories.

“What was that, love?” Grace’s voice probed over the line.

“Er, nothing.” The Doctor turned hastily, putting her back to the hallway. “Sorry, when did you say I could come down? I’m free for—well, the next few days. And always, in a broader sense.”

Grace laughed, relief clear in her tone. “Well, this afternoon would be lovely, actually. Or as soon as possible. I just—well, can’t get anywhere without a car.”

“Of course,” the Doctor replied, though already she could feel her hearts sinking, her hands twitching with anxiety. This afternoon—all of a sudden, she wasn’t ready. Who was she to move among the humans, anyway? Most of them hated her, and the rest were terrified. “I can do that. Soon as possible.”

“Great,” Grace responded. “This—thank you, Doctor. This will help us out so much.”

The Doctor hesitated, guilt washing over her. She wondered vaguely if Grace could sense her fear, her lack of enthusiasm over the phone.

“Nothing of it, Grace. It’s the least I could do.”

“Thanks, love.” Grace’s voice was sincere, the words warm. “I’ll text you my address. Hell, I’ll have Ryan put the kettle on. You’re welcome for tea as well.”

“I don’t—”

“It’s the least we can do,” Grace echoed her own words back at her, this time her voice firm. The Doctor paused, then sagged in surrender.

“Yes,” she replied, phone clenched loosely in her hand, “thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , dear. See you soon.”

The Doctor waited until she heard the line click off, then sighed and set the phone on the counter. She stared at it glumly, and wondered half-heartedly if she was being silly—though about the favor, or the anxiety, she couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t like her to do things for other people. The Doctor considered herself best when locked away, partitioned off from the world lest she accidentally blow something up. Yet still, paradoxically, the anxiety that came with stepping back into it only made her feel like she was making a mistake. 

She couldn’t win. With a groan, the Doctor shook her head, then glanced down at herself. Boxers, and the same shirt she’d been wearing for the last two days. Before she left, she decided, she would probably have to do some laundry.

————

“I don’t want to do this,” the Doctor hissed to the nurse, who only shook her head, her lips pursed. It was a useless complaint; the nurse was just as helpless as she was.

“No offense, dear, but I really can’t do anything to help you.” She finished checking the Doctor’s wrist monitor and stepped back, smoothing her uniform. “I wouldn’t even need to be here if you would do your prescribed calming exercises.”

“I don’t need them,” the Doctor snapped, which even she knew to be blatantly untrue. And sure enough, the nurse only shook her head once more. 

“You shouldn’t need that by now.” The nurse nodded towards the monitor. “If you would just follow the treatment we prescribed. Anxiety is no laughing matter, Doctor. Especially in your condition.”

“My condition is fine,” the Doctor insisted, though her hearts belied her words. They were drumming a staccato rhythm against her ribcage, a rhythm which only increased as she heard the shuffle of movement behind the doors. The High Council, waiting for her.

Desperately, she wished she could be anywhere but here.

The nurse sighed, and glanced to the clock on the wall, then towards the doors. “Well, go on, dear. They’ll be starting soon.”

“They won’t start without me,” the Doctor said, which was true, but nevertheless she stepped forward, pressing one hand to the door handle. It was cool to the touch, and smooth beneath her fingertips. She wasn’t sure why, but she took comfort in that.

“Good luck,” the nurse called behind her, and the Doctor couldn’t tell if there was sarcasm layered within her tone or not, but she didn’t look back to check. She only nodded once, then pushed the door inward and followed it, stepping into the grand chamber of the High Council.

Immediately, everybody except Rassilon rose. Rassilon, already on his feet, only leaned forward slightly and clasped his hands, a small smile playing across his face.

“Good afternoon, Doctor.” He gave a nod, which the Doctor returned, and gestured to an empty spot at the other end of the round table. “Please, take your seat. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“That we have,” a dry voice sounded. The Doctor’s eyes flitted across the room, and her hearts dropped.

Of course. She should have known what other esteemed guest might have been invited to sit in on the High Council.

Missy smiled at her, white teeth flashing, and tilted her chin towards the spot at the end of the table. “Take a seat, Doctor. We’ve been dying to see you.”

The Doctor sucked in a deep breath, and resisted the urge to shout, or cross the room and push her to the ground. Later, maybe, she would have words. That is, if her heart rates could take it.

Instead, she moved to the empty spot and took a seat, feeling rather odd as the rest of the High Council immediately followed suit. Only Rassilon remained standing, discerning gray eyes sweeping across the room.

“As you know,” he began, “we have much to accomplish. The new initiative is one thing, of course, but that encompasses both the immediate future, and far beyond. In the coming weeks, we have our own planet to rebuild, and celebrations to hold. The people are waiting for word of how to proceed, and it is up to us to guide them.”

“You mean the parades?” the Doctor piped up before she could stop herself. Rassilon paused, and all eyes turned to her. For a moment she shrank back, then recalled that she had never blanched before the High Council before. Why should now be any different?

“Yes,” Rassilon said after a long moment. “We are celebrating the end of the war, Doctor. The people need something to lift their spirits. It’s only fair that we give it to them.”

“Right.” The Doctor nodded stiffly. “And I don’t suppose rebuilding the cities will help with that. Rather than parading through them.”

Around her, the High Council shuffled, uncomfortable. Somebody coughed, but she didn’t look in their direction. Neither did Rassilon, who kept his gaze fixed upon the Doctor, his eyes boring into her own. 

“The cities will be rebuilt, Doctor,” he said softly. “And you needn’t worry about us parading through ruins. We are not so callous. Celebrations will be held in the Citadel only, which has been the least hit by the war, and broadcast to the rest of the world. Meanwhile, restoration efforts will begin immediately.”

Somehow, this only seemed worse to the Doctor. She opened her mouth to point this out, only for a familiar voice to jump in.

“The entire universe is celebrating already, Doctor.” Missy’s gaze, when the Doctor turned, was saccharine sweet, and just as sharp. “I know you’ve been…indisposed, and so haven’t seen the news footage. But seeing as the entire universe has been holding parades, it seems only fitting that we do the same.”

She hesitated then, tilting her head. “Well, not the entire universe. Only what’s left of it.”

In a flash, the Doctor was on her feet, her fists curling at her sides. She opened her mouth to let loose a string of obscenities, the kinds she usually reserved for herself, only for a hand on her arm to stop her.

“Doctor.” The Doctor paused, then forced herself to turn, following the hand to its owner. It was the same man who had visited her all those weeks ago, when she had still been in the hospital. He regarded her sternly, jaw tight. “Scenes are ill-becoming of the High Council. Please, have a seat, lest we move on to less pleasant matters.”

The Doctor stared at him for a long moment, teeth clenched so tight they might shatter. “Like what?”

His dark eyes held no emotion when he delivered the next words. “Like Applicatory Statute 217.”

Applicatory Statute 217. Part of the sweeping decree that would shape the Time Lords as the rulers of the universe. This small part, barely a footnote, would eliminate any planet or people deemed dangerous to the unfettered flow of time. Which might include the human race, should the Doctor misbehave.

For several seconds, the Doctor stayed frozen. Then she swallowed hard, and lowered herself back into her seat, forcing her fists to uncurl. The man watched her for a moment, then nodded curtly and turned back to the front.

“Our apologies, Rassilon. Please continue.”

Rassilon nodded in return, and leaned forward slightly, pressing his palms flat against the polished surface of the table. “Thank you, Suras. Now, I believe we should return to the business at hand. Namely, the preparations for the celebrations to be held in two weeks, and the work we must do beyond.”

There came a murmur of agreement as the High Council members shifted in their seats, pulling up holographic displays of notes. The Doctor watched them, and wondered if she should ask for one, then decided she didn’t care. She didn’t even want to be here.

Instead, she focused on Missy, seated just off to Rassilon’s left. She held an old fashioned pen and pencil, and was busy making dainty marks that the Doctor couldn’t make out. As the Doctor watched, she made a flourishing motion with her pen, then glanced up and, upon meeting the Doctor’s eyes, grinned.

The Doctor looked away, rage bubbling in her stomach.

“Of course, with what little time we have, it is vital that preparations proceed as quickly as possible,” Rassilon continued smoothly. “The inaugural parade will be held in ten days’ time, with celebrations continuing for two weeks thereafter. This is, of course, the day on which we will reintroduce the Doctor into the public consciousness.”

“What?” The Doctor’s head jerked up. She had only been half-listening, nursing a simmering, directionless rage. “What do you mean?”

Once more, everybody turned to look at her. Though she wasn’t looking, she heard Missy sigh.

Rassilon smiled slightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Doctor, you are our champion. You ended the war. You saved the Time Lords. You hold the responsibility of a hero. It’s only fitting that you wield it.”

The Doctor stared at him, speechless, hearts pounding though she couldn’t say why. She had known about this already, or at least caught the intention of it. They wanted to use her. They wanted to plaster her face on every wall and screen in the Citadel.

She just hadn’t expected that she would be doing something.

“I don’t want to,” she replied, though she knew immediately that it didn’t matter. The man—Suras—had already told her as much. The fate of the human race hung over her head in the form of Applicatory Statute 217, and she was helpless against it. She didn’t want to give up her freedom for anything—but it didn’t look like she had a choice.

_And besides_ , a small voice whispered in the back of her head, _what have you done with all that freedom? Only stained half the universe in blood._

“You don’t want to.” One side of Rassilon’s mouth curled in a sneer. His face stayed practically immobile, his eyes entirely piercing. His voice was soft, dangerously so. “I don’t suppose, Doctor, that you think you have a choice.”

“I—” The Doctor swallowed hard, and glanced around at the rest of the High Council. None of them were looking at her. None of them, oddly enough, were looking at Rassilon either. Only Missy, with her predator’s grin and sharp eyes, was watching her, only this time she wasn’t smiling. She only stared, her gaze hard and her lips pressed tightly together. When the Doctor looked at her, she gave the slightest shake of her head.

“Doctor.” Rassilon’s voice was hard. “You of all people know what it means to make tough choices. And we are, of course, willing to make concessions for good behavior. But you should know—”

He paused for a moment, letting the words linger in the air. The Doctor stared at him, and though she hated it, felt the first wisps of panic curl in her stomach. 

“—I always do what must be done.”

He lowered his head as he delivered the words, and looked her directly in the eye. And yes, as the Doctor stared at him, she saw the truth there, saw the shared knowledge pass between them. She knew exactly what he was talking about. And possibly, she was the only one.

“Yes,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I know.”

Rassilon held her gaze for a moment longer, then dipped his head. “Perfect. Now, we will discuss further with you your duties pertaining to the ceremonies. You will participate in the opening ceremony by delivering a speech—”

“Excuse me,” the Doctor gasped, and was on her feet before she really registered what she was doing. For the third time in that short meeting, all eyes turned to her, only this time they were accompanied by a low grumble of discontent. She barely heard them. Her wrist monitor was beeping loudly, drowning out any possible voice that might have spoken to her. “I—getting air—”

Without waiting for permission, she turned on her heel and lunged for the double doors. Mutterings followed her, along with a ‘let me go after her’, but she barely registered it. Her head was spinning, her stomach lurching. She felt as if she were about to throw up.

“Doctor—” 

Missy’s voice hit her ten feet from the door, but she didn’t turn around. She only continued at her pace, head down and hands curled, trying desperately to get control of her stomach. Her mouth, dry as sawdust, held a funny taste.

“Doctor!”

“What?” Halfway down the hall, the Doctor stopped and spun, so suddenly that Missy nearly slammed right into her. Without thinking, she reached out to steady, then snatched her hand away. Instead, she shoved it behind her back and glared.

“What do you want?”

“For you to stop acting like a child!” Missy snapped, stumbling back with the force of her stop. She was shorter than her, the Doctor realized suddenly, just enough for it to matter. She couldn’t help but feel a small surge of victory at the realization.

“I’m not acting like a child,” she retorted, drawing herself up to her full height just to make it count. “I’m in a compromising medical condition, Missy. I needed air. Now give it to me.”

“Or you couldn’t handle the fact that the High Council wants to plaster your pretty face across every screen and telepathic link on the planet,” Missy hissed, her nose only inches from the Doctor’s own. “Are you seriously that much of an idiot that you would reject such a thing? Are you going to keep whinging on about the dreadful things you’ve done rather than taking some initiative? Because if you don’t, I’ll take it for you.”

“I know you will,” the Doctor growled, nails digging into her palms. “You already have it. You’ve got your dream, Missy. The Time Lords are the greatest beings in the universe, and you’re going to sit at the head of them. When are you going to take out the president himself, huh? Surely you have plans.”

Missy snorted. “Oh, please. Don’t be daft. Some of us aren’t so stupid as you might be. I have no plans to murder the president, and not nearly one so powerful as Rassilon. I have my own pie to slice, and you’d be wise to help me cut up yours as well, seeing as you can’t figure out how to do it on your own.”

“Sure,” the Doctor snarled, but even so, something inside her hesitated. Perhaps it was the immediate disbelief in which Missy panned her accusations. Though she was an incredible liar—had always been an incredible liar—in times like these, when it was just the two of them, with no masks between, the Doctor could read her. And reading her now, all she saw was the truth.

It had to be a trick. It had to be.

“You’re lying,” she blustered, if only because the silence was starting to stretch. “I know you, Missy. You’ve got plans, and I’m not interested in taking part. Not even if—”

“You could rebuild the universe you always wanted?” Missy stepped forward, closing the gap between them to a mere inch. “You could beat the Time Lords at their own game? Come now, Doctor. Don’t you understand? We’re at the dawn of a new era. Everything is up for grabs. If we don’t take it…”

She stopped, letting the pause dangle in the air. Her eyes searched the Doctor’s, appallingly honest and—pleading? As if she were asking a question the Doctor couldn’t understand. Or maybe she just didn’t want to understand, so as to avoid considering the implications.

“…they will,” the Doctor finished despite herself, and only then realized that she was leaning in, just enough to catch the light reflected in her eyes. They were close now, practically pressed together. Through her robes, she could feel Missy’s double heart rate nearly in time with her own.

“They will,” Missy said, then abruptly stepped back, shattering whatever strange moment held them there. The Doctor watched, a strange, uncomfortable sense of loss collecting in her chest, as Missy sniffed and splayed a hand to examine her nails. The perfect display of nonchalance.

“I’m extending you a hand,” she informed the Doctor, without bothering to meet her gaze. “Look at you. You’re a mess. You need a shoulder to cry on. We may not be the people we once were, but we have common interests. Work together, and we could make something out of this nightmare.”

The Doctor stared at her as she twisted her hand around, then, apparently finished tucked it in the pocket of her robes. Thoughts swirled around her head, none of them containing meaningful decision. She didn’t know what to do and worse, she still felt sick to her stomach.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” she told her honestly, returning in some measure the scary sincerity that she had reflected in Missy’s gaze. “I can’t work with you, Missy. You’re a murderer.”

“And you aren’t?” Missy raised her gaze to meet the Doctor’s. When the Doctor didn’t answer, she sighed, and turned, clucking her tongue.

“Come talk to me when you’ve worked out whatever madman’s morality you’ve got going on in there.” She tapped the side of her head and then, without looking back, took off, striding down the hallway in the direction of the meeting the Doctor had left. The Doctor didn’t follow. She only watched her go, and wished, for what might have been the dozenth time, that she had died back in that barn.

It would have made things a whole lot simpler.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just GUESS who forgot to update on Monday
> 
> Okay the problem w the story already being finished is that i literally. forget to post it because im WHACK
> 
> Okay so to make up for it if i don't forget again i'll try to post a chapter tomorrow SORRY AND THANK U ALL FOR THE COMMENTS YOU ARE ALL LOVELY

“This your spot, ma’am?”

The cab driver cast her a nervous glance through the rear view mirror as she looked out the window. She could feel his gaze prickling at the corners of her perception, but refused to acknowledge it.

She was pretty sure cab drivers didn’t call their customers ‘ma’am’. Then, it wasn’t often a cab driver ferried the most feared being on planet Earth, if not the universe, across Sheffield. She had thought about correcting him, and then decided it wasn’t worth it. 

“Uh—I think so.” She tore her gaze at last from the window and looked to the cab driver, who only stared at her blankly. “I mean, yes. Definitely.” 

“Good,” he grunted, and pressed a button on the meter. It whirred, and a moment later, a number flashed. “That’ll be thirty seven pounds, ma’am.”

That sounded like a suspicious amount for the ride from her house outside her city to Grace’s home, just on the edge of it. Still, she didn’t argue. After all, what did she know of human cab fares? She only fished around in the pocket of her worn blue coat until she found a crumpled bill, and pulled it out. “Here. Keep the change.”

The cab driver’s eyes widened as he accepted the bill, but he didn’t say anything. Only pocketed it hurriedly, then scrambled out of the car to open her door.

Funny. He hadn’t done that on the way in.

“Thanks,” she mumbled as he stood stiffly with the door held open. “Really didn’t need that, but—thanks.”

“My pleasure, ma’am,” the cab driver said, and the moment she was out, slammed the door shut and turned on his heel. He was back in the car before she could think up a response, and revving the engine before she had time to wonder how much she had actually paid him.

“Bye!” she tossed out after him, but it was too late; the car was already pulling off the curb, leaving her to face Grace’s home alone.

Odd how terrifying such a mundane prospect could be.

The steps were right in front of her, so she climbed them, only to hesitate on the front porch. This close, and the whole endeavor was becoming increasingly difficult. She had half a mind to turn around and hail the cab in return.

The only thing stopping her was that damned promise. A promise, and a broken car.

So, with one deep breath, she raised her fist and knocked. 

It took nearly a minute for somebody to come to the door. She could hear people inside—footsteps, muffled voices, ‘I’m going, nan!’—until, just on the other side, came the click of the door handle.

The door opened, and the Doctor barely had time to summon up some kind of friendly expression before she found herself face to face with a young man.

Well, not face to face. He was tall, with a shaved head and a slightly raised eyebrow, as if he wasn’t sure what to expect of whoever had been invited over. His eyes immediately went to the scar across her forehead, before dropping to meet her eyes.

Tall. Young. He had to be Grace’s grandson. The Doctor cleared her throat, and, even though she hated shaking hands, extended her own. 

“Hiya,” she said, mustering the most genuine smile she could. “You must be Ryan.”

“Yeah.” His eyes roamed over her uncertainly before falling to her hand. He didn’t particularly look as if he wanted to take it, and after a moment, she let it drop. “Are you the Doctor?”

He had to know she was the Doctor. Everybody knew what she looked like—schoolchildren learned her name, face, and title in primary.

“Sure am.” She nodded and, when he didn’t make a move to let her in, took the decision into her own hands. “Don’t suppose you could let me in. Your, er, nan called me to take a look at your car.”

Immediately, his face knitted into a scowl. “Oh,” he muttered darkly, but stepped aside, leaving her room to enter. “I can fix that, you know. She thinks I can’t, but I just need—”

“A helping hand?” the Doctor piped up, only to wince as his scowl deepened. “Not like that, obviously. Listen, sometimes it takes two to fix a ship—uh, car—even if you’re the best mechanic in the world. Besides, I’ve got access to whatever tools you need. If that’s what you’re having trouble with.”

“Uh—” Ryan hesitated, his face relaxing slightly. “Yeah, actually. It’s the parts I can’t find. Well, don’t have the money for. But I can fix it.”

“Then I can get you those parts,” she responded, and stepped past him, into the hall. “If you don’t mind me taking a look. Just to make sure I know what to pick up.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She turned and watched as Ryan shut the door, his expression smoothing into something closer to contemplation rather than reluctance. “Sorry, I just—I told her she didn’t need to call anyone.”

“Oh.” The Doctor swallowed a guilty wince. “Not her fault, actually. Sort of invited myself over. Thought I’d—”

“Doctor, there you are!”

The Doctor turned at Grace familiar tones, her face falling into a relieved smile. Not that Ryan wasn’t nice—in fact, he reminded her of Grace in several ways she couldn’t put her finger on—but he was a stranger, and she wasn’t so good around strangers. She couldn’t push the feeling that she was intruding out of her head. 

“Hiya, Grace,” she responded, and stepped forward, coat swinging, only to stop uncertainly. Was she supposed to shake her hand too? She never shook Grace’s hand. Still, it’d been so long since she’d had to use human social conventions—

“Well, no use standing there.” Grace clasped her hands together and nodded towards the coat rack. “Here, why don’t you hang up your coat and I can show you to the garage? Unless you’d rather have tea first.”

“Nan.” Ryan’s voice came from behind the Doctor, firm with something she couldn’t identify. “I thought we were waiting for—”

“Oh—right.” Grace nodded, and looked between the two of them for a moment, then smiled. Immediately, the Doctor was suspicious. She knew that smile. It was the same one that Grace wore when she had invited Yaz over to the Doctor’s house. As if she had something up her sleeve, and neither hell nor high water would get her to tell the Doctor what it was.

Well. If this was Grace’s game, then the Doctor refused to play.

“I’ll keep my coat on,” she said stiffly, even though she knew she’d have to take it off once she started working. “And I’m fine with the garage, Grace. Getting right to it, and all of that.”

Grace raised an eyebrow, but didn’t rise to the curtness of her tone. “Sure,” she said. “Well, c’mon then.”

And with that she turned, leaving the Doctor and Ryan to follow her down the hallway. They did, and as they went, the Doctor couldn’t help but wonder if she had made a mistake.

—————

“You’re fidgeting again.” 

The Doctor huffed, and forced her fingers, which had been tapping against her thigh, to flatten. The tailor didn’t bother thanking her, but only shook his head and continued on in his work.

Which was pretty boring work, if the Doctor was being honest. She couldn’t imagine anybody enjoying it. Even she wasn’t enjoying it, and she was on the receiving end. Of course, it didn’t help that she was being fitted for the exact thing that she was dreading.

The ceremony, in two days’ time. The ceremony which she had spent the last eight days preparing for, in between hours of increasingly depressing meetings, which only ended when her heart rates became too high to continue. Which was happening at shorter and shorter intervals, lately. 

She couldn’t seem to wrap her head around the reality that awaited her. Or rather, she didn’t want to. It was real, sure enough, but it felt like a nightmare. As if she had taken the worst end-of-the-war scenario, and dreamed it into existence.

The Time Lords, she heard, were already preparing to sweep out the closest galaxies. Temporal architects were already hard at work reconstructing the Web of Time in such a way as to make it more lenient to the future they wanted. The whole universe, bending to the will of the Time Lords.

They hadn’t even had to ask. The Doctor had given it to them anyway.

“You’re fidgeting again,” the tailor growled, and this time the Doctor stiffened, fingers freezing against her thigh. Irritation bubbled up in her, but she resisted the urge to snap.

“Aren’t you done yet?” she retorted instead, only to be met, to her surprise, by a sharp sigh.

“Listen.” His needle paused and his chin dropped for a moment, before he raised it to look her in the eye. “This is the biggest job of my career, and I don’t want to mess it up. So can you just…stay still?”

The Doctor stared at him, taken aback. Honesty was a scarce commodity among the Time Lords, even the lowliest. Most didn’t deal in it at all. Except for this tailor, apparently, whom she had perhaps pushed to the brink.

“Sorry,” she said, and forced her fingers to relax, letting her arms drop loosely against her side. “I didn’t mean—I’m just nervous. You know.”

That wasn’t quite the truth, but it was close enough to count, and the tailor seemed to accept it anyway. He nodded, his gaze dropping back to the fabric he was hemming, and his needle started to move again.

“I understand. I mean, this is the biggest ceremony of our time. Well, not the biggest. They say that it’s going to be a tradition. Every year, or five years, or something like that.”

A tradition. The Doctor’s hearts sank at the thought. She couldn’t imagine doing this once, never mind doing it every so often. She knew she had no choice, but the thought of parading in front of adoring crowds, raising her bloodstained hands to the masses—

Well. There was that familiar nausea.

“And—done!” The tailor drew back, satisfied, then pushed himself to his feet and brushed his hands together. “You should be alright now. ‘Long as you don’t grow a couple inches in the next two days, or something like that. Spontaneous regeneration.”

He chuckled at his own joke, and the Doctor only smiled grimly, before turning to examine herself in the mirror. Her robes, replete with a ridiculously high collar, were patterned in deep reds and golds, the kind that signified rank among the Time Lords. Not that there was such a thing, but—well, some things went unspoken, signified only in tailored clothing or deferential looks.

The Doctor, in destroying half the universe, had rocketed to the highest ranks among the Time Lords, right underneath Rassilon himself. Briefly, she wondered how many Time Lords would have done the same to take her place, and then decided that she didn’t want to know.

“Thanks,” she told the tailor, who only nodded, a needle between his teeth as he set about packing up his supplies. “Do you know where I go next?”

“Uh—” The tailor patted his pockets, then withdrew a small messenger, which he tapped twice. He squinted at the tiny holographic monitor, then gave a confirming nod. “Oh. You’re due for a meeting with your co-representative in chamber 12.”

“My what?” The Doctor balked, sudden dread springing forth in her chest. “What do you mean? I’m not to representative of anything.”

The tailor glanced up at her, confused. “Aren’t they appointing the preliminary seats? I heard they were setting up the new government in preparation.”

He wasn’t wrong. The Doctor had rumors of such a thing as well, had even sat through incredibly dull meetings where they hacked out the logistics of universal rule. The universe would be divided into sections, the High Council had decided, with representatives set to enforce Gallifreyan law. That was all that had been decided, or so that Doctor had thought.

The Doctor swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter. They can’t choose me. I’m not—”

Not what? Not the so-called champion of the Time Lords? Not Rassilon’s pet, in all but actuality? Everybody would be expecting her to take over one of the largest quadrants in the universe. Not that anybody had asked her yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Then the second part of the news sunk in, and the Doctor blanched all over again.

“Wait a minute,” she said slowly, an awful feeling growing in her gut, “did you say co-representative?”

The tailor nodded, his eyes curious upon her. “Yeah. Why, is that not how it’s supposed to—”

“Who is it?” The Doctor cut him off with a hurried wave of her hand, and didn’t bother to feel guilty about the rudeness. “Who did they put me with?”

“It’s—” The tailor squinted once more at the tiny display. “Oh, I know her. Well, everybody knows her. Your friend from—”

He didn’t get to finish before the Doctor brushed by him, robes fluttering behind her. He spun around with a shout, but she ignored it.

“Hey!” he called at her back. “You’re supposed to leave the robes—”

The door slammed behind her, effectively ending his protest.

—————

The problem, true to Ryan’s word, was not impossible to fix. In fact, the more she talked to him as she worked, the more she became convinced that he was entirely capable of solving the problem. The only thing standing in his way was a little extra cash—or rather, a lot of extra cash, which neither he, nor Grace, had. 

Fortunately, the Doctor had plenty.

“I can buy the parts tomorrow,” she told him as they closed the hood. He nodded and reached over to snag a nearby cloth, which he used to wipe his own hands before passing it to her.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he said, though she could see the relief sparking in his eyes. Probably because he had been right, and because they didn’t need to call a mechanic. From the short time she had spent with him, she got the impression that Ryan liked to fix things on his own, whether he could manage it or no. “I’m sure we could figure something out.”

“Yeah.” She pass the cloth over her hands once, twice, wincing at the amount of grease that came away. “Only you don’t have to. I’ve got money, and I really don’t need it.”

He smiled weakly at that, as if he wasn’t sure quite how to respond. She couldn’t blame him. She had a feeling it was one of those things that people didn’t really talk about, money. Like sexual relations, or whether she had nightmares every night, or the fact that she could regenerate her body. Private business. Or something. 

“If you want,” he replied, and held out his hand for the now-dirtied cloth. “It’s just…a bit odd, you know, coming here. Not in a bad way,” he hurried to add at the expression on her face, “but odd. Because you’re—well, aren’t you the president of the world, or something?”

“Or something,” she responded dryly. “Yeah, you could say that. Only you lot are so good at running yourselves that you don’t give me much to do.”

That was a bit of a fib, but it seemed like the right thing to say. Humans liked compliments, she’d learned long ago, unless she laid it on too thick. Then they started to suspect she was lying.

“Yeah.” Ryan snorted. “Okay. Well, if you want to come by and fix our car,” he shrugged, and swept a hand towards the vehicle, “you’re more than welcome.”

“Thanks,” the Doctor replied, and surprised herself by meaning it. In truth, the experience hadn’t been that bad. Ryan was kind, and occasionally funny, and she’d forgotten how much she enjoyed fixing things, even if was as simple as an Earth car. Perhaps she ought to return to the TARDIS one of these days. Give her a look-over.

Then she recalled the console room, and the reams of bad memories that it sheltered, and had to suppress a shudder.

“Ryan? Doctor?” Grace’s voice yanked her out of her reverie, and she followed Ryan’s move as he turned his head to the stairs.

“Yeah, nan?” he called back. Her voice came ringing down moments later.

“Tea is ready! We’re eating in a moment!”

There came a pause, and then— “And Yaz just got here, so hurry!”

“Got it, thanks!” Ryan called, then turned back to the Doctor. “Alright, we ought to wash up before—hey, are you alright?”

“Huh?” Quickly, the Doctor forced a nod. “’Course I am. I love tea, me. Favorite meal of the day.”

“Okay.” Ryan watched her curiously for a moment, then shrugged. “C’mon, then. Before she starts calling us again.”

He turned towards the stairs and, after a moment, the Doctor jerked into motion behind him. Deep in her gut, anxiety had started to collect, but she could only swallow it before it spilled outward.

She should have known Grace would invite Yaz. She couldn’t even be mad about it. After all, it was the Doctor who had wanted to apologize. Why should Grace be the one to do it? Better to set up an in-person meeting, or pass on Yaz’s phone number.

The Doctor might have preferred the latter. At least then, she might have been able to avoid it. 

The others were already seating themselves by the time Ryan and the Doctor washed up and entered the dining room. The Doctor’s eyes found Yaz first, who gave her a friendly, if awkward nod, before moving on to the one person she didn’t recognize.

“Doctor, this is Graham.” Grace gestured between the two of them. “And Graham, this is the Doctor. You both have heard a lot about each other.”

“Have we now,” Graham replied without looking at Grace. His eyes were upon the Doctor, and something close to a smile sat upon his face, though it wasn’t all there yet. It was as if he were holding out for the jury. Watching the Doctor, and gauging. 

The Doctor did the only human thing she reliably knew how to do, and stepped forward, hand out. “We definitely have. Or at least, I’ve heard about the cheese and pickle sarnies.”

Immediately, Graham’s smile vanished. “Oi!” He glanced to his wife in mock betrayal. “That’s supposed to be between us!”

“When you carry those things around in your pockets?” Grace shook her head. “Dear, it’s between the whole world. Now sit down, before everything goes cold.”

This was directed at Ryan and the Doctor, who hurried to take their seats at the far end of the table. With few options available, the Doctor found herself seated between Grace and Yaz, which might have been the least desirable position available. Grace wore a knowing smirk on her face and didn’t bother to hide it, while Yaz only looked uncomfortable. The Doctor couldn’t blame her.

This, she decided, was going to be a very long meal.

“So, Doc,” Graham said as they began passing around various dishes. The Doctor looked up, wrinkling her nose at the nickname, but didn’t say anything. “You live outside Sheffield, yeah? In that big fancy house up there.”

“I do, yeah,” the Doctor replied, and with no idea of what to add, busied herself in spreading butter across a slice of bread. 

“Hmmm.” Graham nodded appreciatively. “Must be nice, living outside the city. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love the city, but fresh air.” He shook his head. “You can’t beat that.”

The Doctor wasn’t sure how to respond to this, either. Furthermore, she couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested, or only pursuing conversation for the sake of it. She played briefly with the idea of mentioning that she never bothered going outside anyway—which would effectively end the line of questioning—then decided that it would be rude. And much as she was good at being rude, she was also trying to be a proper friend, and she had a feeling the two ought not to intermix.

“You really can’t,” she said politely, only to frown as Ryan snorted.

“Oh, c’mon, Graham,” he said. “Like you don’t drag me up those hills to ride my bike often enough.”

“Oi, excuse me!” he replied immediately. “It was you who said you wanted to learn, wasn’t it? And it’s not as if I’ll pass up the chance to see a bit of nature, I’ll be honest—”

“Alright.” Grace’s voice cut between the heightened tones, drawing silence with a look. “No need to natter on about that when we have guests over.”

“Fine,” Ryan grumbled, and leaned over his plate, picking moodily at his food. Graham lapsed into silence as well, but tension hung in the air between them, though the Doctor couldn’t tell why. She wracked her brains, trying to think, and dimly recalled something about Graham’s status as a grandad, and Ryan’s lack of acceptance of the fact.

It seemed a silly thing to worry about. Then again, what did she know of human arguments?

“Are you learning how to ride a bike, Ryan?” Yaz asked brightly, clearly eager to distract, only to backtrack at Ryan’s look. “I mean—nothing’s wrong with that. I was only curious.”

“Yeah,” Ryan mumbled to his plate. “S’not that I can’t, or anything. I just have dyspraxia. It affects uh, my coordination and stuff.”

“Oh, yeah.” Yaz nodded in sympathy. “Why do you want to ride a bike, though? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

It took Ryan a long time to answer. For several seconds, he pushed his food around his plate and didn’t say anything.

“My dad was going to teach me,” he said at last. “Never got around to it. Left a few years back.”

“Oh.” Yaz nodded and, clearly unsure what to say, fell into silence. So did the rest of the table, leaving the Doctor to flounder, uncertain as to the social protocol required.

Why had she let herself stay for tea again? She should have skedaddled the moment she’d finished the repairs.

“I’ll be honest, dads aren’t that great anyway,” she said instead, only to wince internally as the entire table turned to her. With nowhere else to go, and stuck under three pairs of eyes, she did the only thing she knew how to do, and kept going. “Was a dad myself once. And I was terrible at it. Grandad too, and I was even worse at that.”

She’d left Susan with one shoe, she recalled suddenly, and something inside her cracked. Silently, like the spiderwebbed fracture of a window pain. 

She’d left her granddaughter with one shoe, and the last she had seen of her had been in the Time War. She hadn’t survived the final battles. The Doctor had checked, and checked again. And then checked a fourth time, just because she couldn’t bear to let it be true. 

“You were a grandad,” Graham said flatly, drawing her attention back to the present. She looked at him, and nodded silently, unable to get past the lump in her throat.

“Graham, everybody knows Time Lords can regenerate their bodies.” Ryan rolled his eyes. “That’s like, primary school level.”

“Okay, well not when I was in primary school!” Graham protested. “It was all new back then! They didn’t bother telling us anything.”

“It took us a while to get the system set up,” the Doctor put in, forcing herself to ignore the familiar shame that prickled at the back of her neck whenever humans mentioned the Time Lords. Impossible not to be associated with them, and impossible not to acknowledge the enormous gap in power that separated humans from the beings that ruled the universe, but—

_We rule you,_ she thought silently, _and yet you are so much better than us._

The kind of thing no Time Lord would ever think aloud, much less think. Not only was it treason, but it was ridiculous. Whether the Time Lords were sitting comfortably in their own little bubble, or expanding their ironclad grip on the universe, their perspective had always been the same; they were better. The supreme beings, if such a thing could exist. Humans, as well as every other race, were little more than the bugs and beetles of the universe. Useful, the way a bee was useful in pollinating flowers. Nothing more than that.

It twisted the Doctor’s stomach. And yet here she was, born of the same blood, and wearing the same title.

Time Lord representative of Earth. The words tasted like ash in her mouth.

“It makes sense,” Yaz was saying as the Doctor reeled silently, caught in her own world of guilt. “We only received a representative in the 1950s, so they might not have had it in school. I heard it’s odd that we got one at all.”

“Yeah.” Ryan spoke through a mouthful of food. “I remember that—the teacher told us they never give representatives to anything less than a star system. We were meant to be folded into the Milky Way section.”

“Were we?” Grace was listening with interest and, when the Doctor met her gaze, turned to her, curiosity upon her face. “Is that true, Doctor? That we weren’t supposed to have a representative at all?”

Yes. No. Without the Doctor, Earth might have been folded into the Milky Way as Ryan had said—or it would have been wiped out, the human race deemed too troublesome in the future to exist. If the Doctor hadn’t capitulated, they might not be alive.

But she couldn’t say that, even if she wanted to. It simply wasn’t done. Such deals never left the gilded chambers of the Citadel, if they were spoken of at all. The Doctor’s deal with the High Council was common knowledge—and yet it didn’t exist. And she couldn’t just spill it to the four humans who sat in front of her.

“Doctor?” By now, Grace’s expression had morphed into concern. “Are you feeling okay, love?”

In fact, familiar nausea had begun to rise in her stomach, but the Doctor didn’t say that. Instead, she rose herself, lurching to her feet with a sudden movement that sent her chair screeching back.

“I’m going to get some air,” she said, and didn’t wait for a response. Instead she moved mechanically, stepping around Yaz’s chair to stumble towards the nearby hallway.

“Doctor—” Grace called, but she didn’t listen. It had been a bad idea, coming to visit. She should have stayed in her makeshift castle, burying her guilt in ginger beer instead of trying to do the right thing, and should have simply pretended that Yaz’s visit had never happened. It would have been easier that way. The coward’s path was always easier.

But apparently it was too late for that, for when the Doctor pushed the door open to step outside into the chilly Sheffield evening, it didn’t slam behind her. Somebody caught it instead, and followed her out.

“I’m fine, Grace,” she forced out through gritted teeth, only to freeze at the voice that replied.

“It’s Yaz, actually.” Yaz sidled up beside her, eyes large with both curiosity and worry. “Are you okay, Doctor?”

“I’m fine,” the Doctor growled, and forced her gaze away, out to the street that stretched in front of them. It was empty, except for a few cars parked along the curb. “I’m sorry about that. I just—shouldn’t be discussing some things. Not with humans. No offense,” she added quickly.

Beside her, Yaz laughed. “None taken. You didn’t seem mad. Only—well, a little anxious, if I’m being honest.”

“I wasn’t,” the Doctor said immediately, only to cringe under Yaz’s disbelieving glance. “I mean—I’m not. I don’t get anxious.”

Yaz didn’t reply to this, but she let her disbelief linger in the air between them, until at last the Doctor sighed and looked out once more over the empty street.

“It’s a side effect,” she said stiffly, every word like a fish hook being yanked from her throat. “Of certain things. Nothing you can understand—no offense—but I can’t always control it. I mean, I can—excellent at control, me—but it’s just—well—it’s—”

She hesitated, the words sticking in her throat. She didn’t know what else to say—which seemed to be a common occurrence between her and human beings. She’d already said more than she had told anybody in the past several decades outside of Grace or her psychiatrist, and, having passed that milestone, she didn’t know where to go. Admitting things was hideous, and awkward, and she was supposed to be apologizing, anyway. This wasn’t nearly the same thing.

But when she couldn’t find the words, Yaz didn’t seem to take offense. She only gave a small shrug, lifting her arms to wrap them across her chest, and looked out over the street, smiling slightly.

“It’s okay, you know,” she said. “I get anxious too, sometimes. I used to—well, I used to get bullied a lot. Got really bad, to the point I had to go to a doctor because I was having panic attacks just thinking about going to school. My parents even thought about home schooling me.”

She paused for a moment, not looking at the Doctor, so the Doctor took a moment to watch her, surprised despite herself. On a rational level, she knew that humans experienced panic attacks. Dr. Benton talked about them all the time. 

She had just…never meant anybody like her before.

“How did you get past them?” she asked, only to realize how woeful she sounded. Asking a human girl for advice, as if she wasn’t the most powerful being on the planet.

But then, she reminded herself, powerful didn’t mean anything, not in a universe where her species wielded it so freely. Power was as common as pennies among Time Lords. She herself had it in spades, not that she ever bothered to use it.

Yaz had something different, as did the others inside that house. A freedom that she no longer possessed, though she once had. The ability to speak freely, and do what they wanted, for the most part. Normalcy, though she’d long despised normalcy.

She ached for it, and she couldn’t even figure out what it was. Typical of herself, the Doctor thought grimly. She didn’t voice any of this aloud.

Yaz considered her question for several impossibly long seconds before answering. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “Well, I left that situation, first of all. So that helped. And I—I suppose I talked about it more. Told my sister, and my parents. Got help.”

She shrugged, as the Doctor stared at her, disappointment slowly gathering in her chest. She’d done all of those things, for the most part. Hell, she even had a psychiatrist who forced her to talk about things once a month. What she couldn’t figure out why Yaz stood before her, seemingly happy, and the Doctor stood a world away, trapped in a nightmare she couldn’t escape, even when she was awake.

Maybe she was looking at things too closely, she decided miserably. Focusing on the panic attacks, when the real issue was that she hadn’t known peace since the moment the Daleks had been born, and even wiping them out hadn’t done her any good. In fact, she’d argue that she had only made things worse.

Maybe her problems just couldn’t be dealt with on a human level.

“Thank you, Yaz,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say, and turned back to the front. Only to pause, as another question occurred to her. “Hang on. Is that why you get nightmares?”

“What?” Yaz turned to look at her, confused. “How did you know about that?”

“You told me,” the Doctor replied, and when Yaz continued to stare, baffled, waved a hand. “When you, er, stayed at my house. You told me that. Must have been right before you fell asleep.”

“Oh.” Yaz frowned, and for a moment, didn’t reply. Briefly, the Doctor wondered if she had committed some social faux pas by mentioning such a thing. She could never be sure. 

“You’re right,” Yaz admitted after a few seconds. “Sometimes I get nightmares about being bullied. I suppose that’s why I mentioned it. Just because—well, it’s not an embarrassing thing, you know? It’s normal. Lots of people get nightmares.”

_Not the nightmares I get_ , the Doctor thought, but she didn’t say this. Instead, she said, “I’m sorry, though. For—being a bad host. And making you stay over. Awful rude of me, that. Then again, I probably shouldn’t have been drinking in the first place, but—”

“It’s fine.” Yaz shook her head, smiling slightly. “I mean, it was a bit awkward, not gonna lie, but I do get it. Sort of. And it wasn’t the worst night I’ve had.” She frowned, gazing at something the Doctor couldn’t see. “That definitely belongs to Danny Biswas.”

“Oh.” The Doctor didn’t know who, or what, that might be. She nodded stiffly, for lack of a better response, and tucked her fingers under her armpits. It was cold outside, she was only now starting to realize, and she had come outside without a coat. “Oh. Okay.”

She shifted her feet, uncomfortable with the feeling of lingering apology in the air, and tried to think of anything that might break it. Only one thing came to mind.

“Yaz, do you mind if we go back inside now?”

“Oh, thank god.” Yaz laughed, her face splitting into relief. “I was hoping you would say that. I’m freezing.”

She didn’t wait for the Doctor but immediately turned to the door and turned the handle, pushing it open and stepping inside. The Doctor followed her and, as the warmth of the interior hit her face, thought that this whole endeavor might not be so bad after all. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i'm back! I'm so sorry I haven't been updating, but unfortunately I've had wifi issues w my computer until approximately last night. to make up for it, I'm going to yeet two chapters, because yolo! why not

Chamber 12 was a long way off, which gave the Doctor plenty of time to build up a thunderhead of anger. It brewed and broiled as she strode down the halls, monitor on her wrist beeping in soft urgency, and exploded the moment she entered the chamber.

“MISSY!” The door slammed opened with a resound _bang!_ as it bounced off the wall, and the only other occupant in the room immediately turned, a smile upon her face.

“Doctor, as always, lovely to see you—”

“Shut UP!” The Doctor reached her and kept going, burying her hand in her collar and shoving her against one of the nearby pillars that surrounded the elegant round table. The entire meeting chamber, empty but for them.

The Doctor was always at her worst without witnesses.

Missy laughed as she hit the pillar, the sound breathy and high. “Is this how you greet your co-representative?”

White hot rage flashed over the Doctor, and in that moment, fingers twitching around Missy’s collar, she wanted nothing more than to shove her head against the pillar.

She didn’t. Fury washed over her, following the ebb and flow of a tidal wave, and she let it. Let it crash, and let it wash away again. Forced herself to be calm, if only because Missy was doing the same.

And if Missy could laugh in the face of the Doctor’s anger, than the Doctor would just have to one up her.

“Tell me why you did it,” she growled, her face so close to Missy’s that one forgotten inch would have them touching. “Why did you put us together? Why would you do that?”

Missy’s eyes roamed over her, familiar rage sparking just beneath the surface. It never bubbled over. This incarnation was good at that, the Doctor reflected bitterly. She held her anger, and used it. Whereas with the Doctor, it spilled over like a pot left to boil, lid askew and rim overflowing.

“Because,” she hissed, each word sharp as a dagger, “you don’t seem to be doing the job yourself. I’m trying to make something here, you know. I need your help to do it. It would befit you to listen.”

The Doctor stared at her, searching past her words. On the surface they stood honest, but her voice echoed with falsehood, though the Doctor couldn’t place her finger on why. Some part of what she said was a lie, but another part rung true, and the more the Doctor tried to discern, the more they jumbled together.

“I won’t listen to you,” she hissed, fingers tightening around the fabric, “because you’re lying to me. Tell me the real reason, Missy. Otherwise I know you’re just going to kill me the moment they ship us out of here.”

Something flashed in Missy’s eyes, hot and prickling with hurt, and then it was gone, and her gaze turned shielded. 

“Why, Doctor,” she purred, voice coated in sticky sweetness, “does that imply you’re accepting the position?”

“What?” Without thinking, the Doctor drew back, fingers loosening. “No! And you won’t—”

“Oh, but they will,” Missy hissed, and without warning, reached forward and grabbed the Doctor’s own collar, dragging her forward. Despite her diminutive form, she possessed a surprising amount of strength, and the Doctor, caught by surprise, found herself helpless. 

“It’s not about me,” she continued, breath hot in the Doctor’s ear. “It’s about what they’re going to do to us, Doctor. We’re on thin ice, the two of us. That’s why we have to play nice, or we’ll be put on time out.”

“So you drag me into this with you,” the Doctor forced out through the tightness of Missy’s grip. The cloth around her throat bunched, and pulled, choking off her air. “Do you really hate me so much that you’d condemn us both?”

“Condemn?” Missy balked, and pushed the Doctor away, sending her staggering. As the Doctor stumbled for balance, she straightened against the pillar, sweeping one hand back over her hair. “Goodness, is that what you call it? After I saved your life? You need me, Doctor. And I need you. Don’t you understand by now? The war is over. The universe has changed. It’s about time we start working together, lest we get torn apart on our lonesomes.”

“I told you,” the Doctor gasped, one hand massaging her throat, “I don’t want to work with you.”

“Well, you don’t have a choice,” Missy snapped. “It doesn’t work like that anymore. Your life came at a price. Sorry to say, but that’s how these things go.”

“Then you should have let me die,” the Doctor retorted bitterly, even as a sense of failure collected in her chest. It would always be like this, wouldn’t it? The two of them, circling around each other like dying stars, either one of them threatening to consume the other. The Doctor was falling into Missy’s gravitational pull, and she couldn’t even stop it. She didn’t know how.

Missy snorted. “Please. If you truly wanted to die, you’d be dead by now, and I couldn’t have stopped you. For all your faults, Doctor, you’ve got a razor sharp survival instinct. It’s almost admirable.”

“Stop it,” the Doctor snapped, but the words had no real bite to them. She was too deeply sunken into misery to summon any. Missy was right, was the problem, and it burned at her. The Doctor always knew how to survive, sometimes despite her best efforts. Even if she made it out battered with scars and stuck to a wrist monitor, which beeped every time her heart rates rose above a certain point.

Survival was the Doctor’s bread and butter. And she hated herself for it. 

“Why do you keep doing this?” she asked miserably. “Why do you keep trying to drag me into whatever you’re planning? I know you’re planning something, Missy. You have that look in your eye.”

A grin flared upon Missy’s face and she stepped forward, slicing down the space between them. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am. And maybe I’m not. The point is moot, however, because if you aren’t going to work with me, then I’m not going to tell you.”

“You aren’t going to tell me anyway,” the Doctor responded, though something inside her hesitated. She couldn’t even be sure that that was the truth anymore. The whole world had gone off-kilter with the end of the war, and Missy was no exception. She was up to something, the Doctor was sure of it, but nothing reeked of her usually psychopathic glee. This ran deeper, and with a far more serious edge.

Fear, she realized suddenly, and had to bite her tongue to keep from saying it out loud. That was what she caught in Missy’s face, in the barest moments when she let her mask slip. Missy was scared of something, and she wasn’t saying what. Not that she ever would, but even so, the fact that she let her mask stutter told the Doctor enough.

She wasn’t just pushing the Doctor into a partnership. She was desperate for it, in a way that she would never let the Doctor know. Something had her scared enough to turn to her own worst enemy.

And the Doctor had no idea what that might be.

“What do you know, Missy?” she asked softly, and watched Missy’s eyes widen in surprise, but only for a moment, before her entire face shuttered.

“No more than you, dear,” she said, the smallest of tight-lipped smiles etching across her face. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t be telling.”

With that she brushed past the Doctor, robes sweeping out behind her, and made a beeline straight for the door. She almost made it before the Doctor turned and lunged, snagging her by the sleeve and pulling her close.

“You’d tell me if we worked together,” she hissed, her fingers a vise around Missy’s wrist. It probably hurt, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care—and wasn’t that typical? The two of them, always hurting the other, by accident if not on purpose. “Is that it? If I agree to work with you, you’d tell me what you know.”

Missy’s eyes roamed across her face with calculating sharpness. “I can’t promise anything. Besides, like I said before—you know just as much as I do.”

“That can’t be true,” she retorted, but she saw the sincerity in Missy’s face, and hesitated. “Then why bother recruiting me? Why take the time to drag me with you?”

Missy’s eyebrows rose briefly, as if she were actually surprised by the Doctor’s question. She searched the Doctor’s face, as if trying to find something other than the honest confusion there, and, upon coming up blank, rocked back on her heels.

“Why do you think?” she whispered, and, when the Doctor opened her mouth to respond, raised a finger, pressing it to her lips. “Don’t. You’ll ruin the moment.”

“There’s no—” the Doctor tried to respond, but Missy just clucked her tongue and, before the Doctor could react, did something entirely unexpected. She reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind the Doctor’s ear.

The Doctor jerked back, more out of surprise than anything, but it didn’t make a difference; the strange tension between them shattered, and Missy dropped her hand as quickly as if she had been burned. She stepped back, something close to anger flaring in her eyes.

“You don’t have to decide now,” she said, her voice soft with carefully refined fury, “but you don’t really have much of a choice. The High Council would like nothing more than to wipe out your pesky humans, Doctor. And if that’s all you truly care about—”

She let the words hang, filled with inexplicable accusation. The Doctor only stared at her tiredly, monitor beeping softly. Her head was spinning, and in the aftermath of this conversation, she couldn’t quite piece together what had happened.

“—then you might think about doing what they say.”

She didn’t wait for a response, but turned on her heel and swept out, leaving the Doctor to watch her go, a lingering sense of loss in her gut. She couldn’t place why.

—————

“Doctor, that’s not a word.”

The Doctor stared at the board in confusion, tongue stuck slightly out and forehead creased. “Why not?”

“Doesn’t exist in English, love.” Grace pushed the tiles back towards her across the Scrabble board, and she accepted them glumly, then glanced at what she had. Seven Xs, and a Z. She could have spelled the perfect word in Xezeri, but apparently that was off limits.

“Is that a rule?” she asked, only to cringe at four groans in unison.

“It is for this game, mate,” Ryan said with a severe look towards the board. They hadn’t taken away her first victories, so several strings of non-human words, transcribed into English letters, littered the board. “Not fair to play against someone who knows every language.”

“I don’t know every language,” the Doctor protested, which was only true because she wasn’t near her TARDIS. “I’m only fluent in a few hundred, and conversational in a thousand _maybe_. Hardly every language.”

Beside her, Yaz suppressed a snort, and Graham just gave Grace a look that might have said ‘you invited her’. There didn’t seem to be any real malice attached to it, however. In fact, ever since the Doctor had come inside, a friendly atmosphere had settled over the entire proceedings, and hadn’t left. It was unlike anything the Doctor could recall feeling in the past seventy or so years, and she couldn’t help but revel in it. 

“Okay, well the rule still stands,” Ryan replied, his brow now furrowed in concentration as he gazed at his own tiles. The Doctor watched him for a moment, then let out a noisy sigh and looked down at hers.

“I think I’m out, then,” she declared, shoulders sagging in surrender. “You lot never use your Xs properly.”

“That’s because we only have one of them,” Ryan said without looking up. He was busy examining the board now, and as the Doctor watched, he picked up three tiles and added them to a string to carefully spell out ‘library’. 

“Sorry, Doctor.” Yaz cast her a sympathetic look. “Next time, maybe.”

“Hmmm.” The Doctor’s frown deepened until it became dangerously close to a petulant scowl. Briefly, she wondered if it were possible to cheat at Scrabble, then decided she didn’t want to risk an argument. Not with these people, who might actually be her friends, if she could call them such a thing.

Could one make friends that quickly? she wondered. It seemed entirely too easy, almost unfairly so. That last time she had made a friend had been—

Well. It spoke volumes to say that she couldn’t remember. 

“Eight points, Ryan.” Grace tallied up the points on a little notepad she held, and the Doctor watched as Ryan gaped in dismay.

“Only eight?” he flung a hand towards the board. “That had to be worth more. I used up my only Y!”

Grace shrugged, unmoved. “Sorry. That’s what the points are.”

Ryan leaned back in his seat, scowling, and, despite his earlier admonishment towards her, the Doctor felt a wave of sympathy.

“Scrabble is silly anyway,” she declared, slumping back in her chair. “If you can’t use other languages, what’s the point?”

Across from her, Graham opened his mouth to object, but Grace got there before he could. She glanced around the table, saw Ryan’s frown and the Doctor’s slumped posture, and read the room.

“I take it we’re done?” she asked nobody in particular. The Doctor didn’t answer, unsure if she should, but Yaz chimed in for her.

“If I’m being honest, I’m not the best at Scrabble either.” She pushed her tiles forward, acquiescing to the general air of fatigue. “I play Monopoly sometimes, but it’s so late—”

“Oh, we’d be here for hours.” Graham shook his head as he reached forward to snag the small velvety bag in which to return the tiles. “Besides, I’ve never played a game of Monopoly that hasn’t ended in a fight. Lost my first girlfriend because of that game.”

Beside him, Ryan snorted, drawing a look from Grace. 

“Maybe Yaz is right,” Grace allowed after a moment. She glanced toward the clock on the wall, which read half past ten. “It is late. For all of you. Yaz, are you okay to drive home?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Yaz was busy collecting tiles one by one, and passing them to Graham, who placed them in the bag. “My shifts nearly always end late, so I’m used to it. Life of a PC.” 

She grinned and, once Graham received the last of the tiles, rose to her feet. “I can even give the Doctor a ride back, if she wants.”

“What?” The Doctor’s head jerked up, surprise sliding across her face. “Why?”

Too late, she realized that was the wrong thing to say. Cursing internally, she backtracked. “I mean—you don’t have to do that, Yaz. I could—”

“Not bother with paying for a cab at this hour,” Grace cut in firmly. “I think that’s a great idea, Yaz. Unless the Doctor wants to stay the night. We do have a guest bedroom.”

“Uh—” The Doctor stared at Grace, overwhelmed and unsure what to do. Human social interactions were tricky—she couldn’t tell what was expected of her, and furthermore, she couldn’t figure out which one she’d rather do. In all honesty, the thought of returning to her house, gapingly empty and aching of loneliness, filled her with dread. But on the other hand, should she wake the entire house with her nightmares—

“I’ll go with Yaz,” she said quickly, and stood, only to recall her manners. “Er, thank you, Grace. For the offer.”

“Nothing of it.” Grace smiled, then frowned as her eyes moved past Yaz and the Doctor, to the rain spattered window beyond. “Oh, and it’s a good thing you brought a coat. The weather looks like it’s taking a turn for the worst.”

“Does it?” The Doctor turned, only to wince as a clap of thunder shattered the room. “Oh. You’re right.”

Internally, she cringed. She hated storms, especially the noisy thunderstorms that planet Earth seemed to be so fond of. They rattled her dreams like nothing else, and tonight—

Well. Perhaps she wouldn’t bother trying to sleep at all.

“Right.” Yaz reached for her jacket, hanging off the back of her chair, and shrugged it on. “Thank you, Grace. For inviting me. And for the lovely meal, and the game.”

“Of course, love.” Grace smiled, eyes twinkling. “Drive safe, yeah?”

“Only way to drive.” Jacket on, she cast them all a wave, then gestured to the Doctor. “Are you coming, Doctor?”

“Oh—yeah.” The Doctor hesitated, torn between goodbyes. To her own surprise, she didn’t want to leave. Then again, to stay meant to subject them all to her night terrors, and even if Grace knew that she experienced such things, she wasn’t quite ready to force any of them to face the reality. “Thank you, Grace. And all of you.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Grace replied. “For the car. I expect we’ll see you down here again, sometime?”

“Oh—right!” The Doctor cast a glance to Ryan, then nodded. “I mean, Ryan can probably do the repairs himself, but—”

“I don’t mind,” Ryan put in. When the Doctor looked to him in confusion, he shrugged. “Sometimes you need a second pair of hands.”

“Oh.” The Doctor swallowed hard. Her own words thrown back at her, yet they didn’t sound sarcastic, nor taunting. In fact, Ryan was smiling at her, the twinkle in his eye awfully close to the one Grace often wore. Once more, the Doctor was forcibly reminded of their similarity. “Can’t imagine where you heard that from. Somebody incredibly smart, probably.”

Ryan’s grin stretched wider, and he opened his mouth to say something, only for Yaz’s voice to echo from the front hallway.

“Are you coming, Doctor?”

“Ah—yes!” The Doctor gave a last uncertain glance to the others. “Er, hope you have a good night. And thank you. Really.”

She wasn’t sure why she added the last bit, but Grace and Graham nodded, and Ryan watched her, still smiling. They wore none of the fear that humans usually wore around her, and though a part of her knew she deserved it, the rest of her could only be relieved. 

It was odd, being in the company of people who treated her so kindly. She couldn’t decide who was in the wrong here, either. Herself, for clinging to it like a newborn babe, or them, for offering it up so freely.

Maybe they were both wrong. Or then again, maybe this was how things were supposed to work.

Last goodbyes bid, she turned to the hallway and followed Yaz out, shrugging her coat on as she went. They stepped together out into the rain, and as Yaz held the door and the Doctor stepped through, she cast the Doctor an uncertain glance.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. “Getting a ride back? I didn’t mean to impose.”

The Doctor opened her mouth, then shut it again. Was she really so standoffish? she wondered. Of course, she had spent years cultivating a general aura of standoffishness. She just hadn’t expected it to work.

“Yasmin Khan,” she said, “there is nothing I’d like better.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, second chapter! I'll be back with another one on friday or whenever I remember (is today wednesday? it feels like wednesday), and until then, thanks for reading!

For the next two nights, the Doctor couldn’t sleep.

It didn’t help that the ceremony loomed, closer and closer with every hour that passed. It didn’t help, either, that every time she closed her eyes, nightmares invaded her mind, screams filled her ears, and the stench of death filled her nostrils.

She dreamed over and over again of the Moment ripping through her body, burning its way across her flesh, and it almost seemed selfish that she would dream of such a thing, and not the trillions who got murdered because of it.

So, she didn’t sleep. Instead, she tossed and turned and buried her head in the mounds of pillows they gave her, and tried not to think of whatever Missy was hiding. She tried not to think of Missy either, which proved just as impossible.

_Why do you keep dragging me into this?_

_Why do you think?_

She didn’t know. She didn’t know, and she had no means to find out, unless she capitulated. And every day, it was looking more and more as if she didn’t have a choice.

She had ended the war in order to free the universe from the tyranny of unending violence. Instead, she had just turned them over to a different kind of tyranny, a subtler, more insidious type. The kind that cloaked itself in propaganda and politics, whilst holding a dagger behind its back.

Her fault. And now she was trapped with the very person she despised, who continued to prove as vexing and infuriating as she always had been, and the Doctor didn’t even have the strength to fight back. Furthermore, she wasn’t even sure what she was fighting back against.

Politics. It was all politics, and she was wading through muddy water, her reflection flat and dark against the surface. No matter how she strained, she couldn’t make out the shapes beneath, but only knew that any second they would drag her under.

She couldn’t do it.

With a huff of surrender, the Doctor sat straight up in bed, finally submitting to consciousness. If she wasn’t going to sleep, then she would find something to drag her mind out of her cycling thoughts. The library would be best—vast, adequately stocked, and almost certainly empty at this hour. Nobody would bother her, and perhaps she would find some peace of mind.

Or at least, a good book.

The hallways proved empty when she slipped from her room, clothed only in her pajamas and soft slippers. She padded quietly along anyway, careful not to rouse light sleepers, and came upon the library in minutes, the doors dark and towering high above her head.

She looked at them for a long moment, then stepped forward and pushed them open.

They swung inward with almost unnatural, well-oiled silence, and she took advantage of it to slide swiftly into a row, fingers out to brush the rows of books. Most libraries were telepathic these days, but some of the older folk preferred a physical copy, and while the Doctor didn’t always like to admit it, she preferred the same. She toured the rows quietly, only half-reading the titles as her fingers crept along the spines, and so caught up was she in following the long line of encyclopedias that she had found, that it came as quite the surprise to round a corner and realize that she wasn’t alone.

And even worse, to realize a beat later that her company was the very last person she wanted to see.

The Doctor froze as she stepped out of the row and into a small alcove, her fingers still poised upon the spine of the last book. “Missy?”

Her back was to the Doctor, her head bent low over a book splayed open on a table, but at the Doctor’s voice, she jumped and spun around.

“Doctor!” To the Doctor’s brief satisfaction, surprise flittered across her expression, though it disappeared moments later, locked away in a familiar, teasing mask. She smiled, and though the expression slid across her face as easily as water, it rung hollow. “Fancied a late-night rendezvous?”

“I wasn’t looking for you,” the Doctor said honestly, and stepped fully out into the alcove. She waited for anger to rise up, and surprised herself by feeling none. Exhaustion rose in her chest instead, accompanied by a strange, bittersweet longing.

A longing for the familiar. In this moment, she in pajamas and Missy in a simple nightdress, surprise having rendered both of them speechless, they might as well have been completely unclothed. It ached of crumbling friendship and long ago laughter, and for just a second, before she forced herself back into reality, she missed it terribly.

Missed them terribly. But that was a story long put to rest, and there was no use stirring it up.

For a moment, Missy didn’t reply. Her eyes roamed over the Doctor, taking in the disheveled pajamas and mussed hair, and then she smirked, though that too was empty. She looked tired, the Doctor realized suddenly. As tired as the Doctor herself, if that were even possible.

For just a second, it occurred to the Doctor that Missy might have nightmares too.

“What are you doing here then, Doctor?” she asked, one hand still half-poised as if to turn the page. It was a book of Gallifreyan history, the Doctor noted. An old tome, probably dating back eons. “Surely you have a bed somewhere. Hospital bed, maybe, but even so.”

The Doctor frowned, and waited once more for that spark of familiar irritation, but it didn’t come. She didn’t even feel like rising to the bait. She was too drained. “I couldn’t sleep. What are you reading?”

She stepped forward, craning her neck to get a better glimpse, but Missy was too quick. She shut the book with a snap, and slid it just behind her back, too fast for the Doctor to catch the title.

“Ah-ah, Doctor,” she clucked. “We have too much to work out between us, I think, before you go snooping.”

“I wasn’t snooping,” the Doctor said crossly, but she didn’t press it. What did she care about the book, anyway? Either Missy would tell her whatever she was planning, or she wouldn’t. The Doctor was too tired to play her games. She already stood as a pawn in a much bigger one, being pushed about on a board she couldn’t even see. “But fine. Whatever you want.”

She reached out, grabbed the back of a nearby chair, and scraped it out from under the table before collapsing upon it with a sigh. Missy watched her in surprise, confusion creasing her brow.

“I’ll be honest, I was hoping you’d leave,” she admitted after a long moment. The Doctor only looked up at her with tired eyes.

“Can’t be bothered,” she said. “Can’t sleep. You can leave, if you want. Actually, I’d rather you did.”

Missy frowned, but didn’t turn to go, as the Doctor had hoped. Instead, she studied the Doctor for a long moment, then reached out to grab a chair of her own, perching upon the edge with such delicacy that it had to be calculated.

“Funny,” she said, templing both hands upon her lap, “but I can’t sleep either. Suppose we’ll just have to keep each other company.”

The Doctor nearly groaned. In fact, she thought about it. Instead, she eyed Missy for several seconds, then shook her head slowly, and slouched over the table, dropping her head into her arms.

“Go ’way, Missy.”

Missy’s laugh, high and entirely genuine, sounded beside her. “I don’t think so. After all, I was here first.”

“So?” The Doctor raised her head to glare at her with bleary eyes. “I’m the hero of the Time War. I think I deserve the right to be alone for a while.”

“You’re always alone,” Missy replied, and when the Doctor didn’t answer, leaned forward and neatly tapped her nose. “And do you really think I’d ever give you what you deserved?”

The Doctor scowled, and batted her hand away. Missy snatched it back, chuckling, and laid it flat against her thigh, as the Doctor groaned and returned her head to her arms.

“What do you think I deserve, then?” Her voice came muffled through her arms. For a moment, there only came silence.

Then Missy scoffed and leaned back against the table, swinging one leg over the other. “Oh, please. Don’t come at my with your sad little morality. You know exactly what I’d tell you, Doctor. Nobody deserves anything. It’s up to you to take it.”

“That’s a terrible way of looking at things,” the Doctor grumbled, but she raised her head anyway and twisted to face her. “No wonder you murder people. If you had half a thimble of morality, you might actually make friends, and goodness knows we can’t have that.”

Anger flashed in Missy’s eyes, but as usual she didn’t let it out. The Doctor watched it simmer quietly, and wondered when they had switched. When did her rage start to rise so easily? And when had Missy learned to place a lid on her own?

“Friends are overrated,” she told the Doctor coolly. “I think we both know that, by this point.”

That shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. Maybe because they didn’t often get personal, the two of them, not when there were planets being blown up and each others’ plans to foil. They’d fought so long against each other that the Doctor had forgotten how it felt to be friends, though now, sitting side by side in an empty library, the moment felt dangerously close.

Close, and something more. For a second, the Doctor stared at Missy, trapped in something she couldn’t understand. Then, she shook herself free and leaned back slightly, spacing a slight distance between the two.

“Nonsense,” she told her. “Friends are the greatest thing this side of the universe. Anybody with half a brain could tell you that.”

“Oh?” Missy raised an eyebrow. “And you seem in such a rush to get more. Or what do you call them—pets? Human companions? I can’t recall the vernacular.”

“Shut up,” the Doctor snapped, anger rising up in her. “You know they’re nothing of the sort. And what about you, Missy? Aren’t you busy hob-knobbing with the rest of the Time Lords? Forming political alliances, or whatever passes for acquaintances these days?”

Missy cast her a severe look, fingers tapping lightly upon her thigh. The Doctor watched them idly, and for the weakest of moments, imagined interlacing them with her own. They had done that a lot, as children, whether running from trouble or simply skipping from class to class. The Doctor had never been overly fond of physical touch, but things had always been different between the two of them. Different boundaries, and different indulgences.

Differences, in the end, that had grown too large to reconcile, even if now, sitting in a library in the dark of night, some part of the Doctor desperately wanted to.

Missy seemed to have sensed what she was thinking, for her fingers paused and she tilted her head slightly, a smirk upon her face. “Tell me, Doctor. What’s on your mind?”

The Doctor’s gaze jerked from her hand to her face, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. The words—not that she had any—stuck in her throat, and she swallowed hard to avoid choking on them. Suddenly, without warning, a wave of loneliness crashed over her, so powerful she nearly keeled with the weight of it. It was a lot of things—the trillions of deaths on her shoulders, the miserable path of her life before her, the friends she had lost, and the very old one who now sat right before her.

“Why are you like this?” she whispered, voice hoarse with a desperation she hadn’t realized she’d had. She wasn’t even sure what she was asking about, but the question rung true all the same. “Why can’t you be—”

She paused then, because she didn’t know. _Be like you used to be_ , might have been a good ending, or _been the person I wanted you to be_ , but neither of them made it past her lips. She didn’t have the courage to say them.

Or maybe she just had too much pride.

When the Doctor didn’t answer, frozen with indecision, Missy dropped her gaze and sighed. Without asking, she reached for the Doctor’s hand and began to play with it, almost absentmindedly, though every movement spoke with purpose. For a while, she didn’t look up.

“I could ask the same question of you, you know,” she said after a lengthy pause. “Because you’re exactly the same, and yet you hide it. I see that anger in you, Doctor. The cruelty. You’ve wiped out wholes swathes of the universe in anger, and you think you’re better than me?” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t think so. The only difference is the hill you claim to die upon.”

“Morality,” the Doctor said stiffly, “is not a hill to—”

“It is if you make it one,” Missy hissed, and with her hand tight around the Doctor’s wrist, drew her closer. “Doctor, we both know that as much of your ego goes into the decisions you make as does goodwill. And I’m not even asking to bend it. I’m just asking you to _work with me_ , for once in your damned lives. We could do so much together. We could rip the universe from the Time Lords, and make it our own. All you have to do is agree.”

She was doing that thing again, that honesty thing, and it scared the Doctor so much she couldn’t look away. This wasn’t the person that she had come to know as the Master, but rather the person she had known so many years ago, who had run through the fields and ruffled her hair and helped her in classes when she had nearly failed. She’d never wanted to believe that they were the same person, because she had long ago realized that she loved one and not the other, but only now, looking Missy straight in the eye, did she understand that they might be one and the same. Missy was the same boy who had been her best friend, and the first person she’d ever loved. She was then, and she was now.

And sitting there in that empty library, the space between them narrowed down to mere inches, it occurred to the Doctor that she could say yes in less than a word. All she had to do was lean forward, and brush her lips against hers. A sharp reminder of their childhood, when they were no more but mostly-grown boys, fumbling in a grassy field under the stars. 

It would be so simple. Somewhere deep inside, she ached for it hard enough to hurt. But on the outside she remained frozen with indecision, caught between a future she couldn’t see and a past so torn apart she couldn’t pick up the pieces.

The moment passed with the tick of a clock. Missy searched her eyes, and disappointment fell across her face. She pulled back, and dropped the Doctor’s hand into her lap.

“I think we ought to go to bed,” she said, and rose in one smooth movement, reaching behind to pick up the book and tuck it underneath her arm. “Goodness knows we have a few busy days ahead of us, Doctor. Especially once you make up your mind.”

The Doctor didn’t respond. She only nodded numbly, and didn’t move as Missy turned and swept out of the library, nightdress fluttering behind her. For nearly two linear minutes, she sat there, glued to her chair, her wrist monitor beeping slowly. Then she rose, and followed Missy’s path out of the library.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thank you for your kind comments and kudos! I'm back on schedule for once, I hope you guys enjoy this one because I had a lot of fun writing it : )

Rain splattered the windshield as Yaz drove the Doctor up the winding road that led to her house. The sky outside was black as pitch, lit only by the occasional streak of lightning, and though the Doctor tried not to let it bother her, she couldn’t help but flinch slightly every time another clap of thunder came crashing down.

Yaz glanced at her several times throughout the ride, but didn’t speak until they passed the city limits. Then she cleared her throat, glanced once more at the Doctor, and posed the most innocent of questions.

“Are you scared of thunderstorms?”

The Doctor flinched, caught. Then she flinched again as another thunderclap tore across the sky. “Uh—no. Why do you ask?”

Yaz glanced at her once more, before returning her eyes to the road. The Doctor felt rather than saw the look, for she too was intensely focused on the road ahead, despite the fact that she could barely see it.

“Sorry if I’m intruding,” Yaz said after a moment. “You just seemed jumpy. I was gonna say, my sister Sonya is scared of them too. Nothing to be ashamed about.”

“You say that a lot,” the Doctor replied, fighting to keep the terseness out of her tone. Yasmin Khan might be a friend, she reminded herself. Friends didn’t snap at friends. Mostly. “That I shouldn’t be ashamed.”

Yaz laughed quietly as she turned them down yet another dark, winding road. “Yeah, maybe I do. I dunno, I had a couple of important people tell me that when I was in some of my worst moments—and it helped, you know? Maybe I just internalized it.”

“Huh.” The Doctor watched the windshield wipers move at a steady pace, slicing through the pounding rain. “That’s a good way to think, Yaz. Not to be ashamed of anything.”

But of course, the Doctor had plenty to be ashamed of, and not only of the way she flinched at loud noises, or the nightmares that woke up anyone who happened to be in the vicinity. She had the blood of thousands of worlds on her hands, and not only of those who had died with her final action of the war, but the billions she had slaughtered before, for the sole purpose of beating the Daleks.

There were no clean hands in war. There were only victims, and those who died were the victims, and those who won were the victims as well. Some escaped, but nobody came out unscathed, morally or otherwise.

Perhaps she needn’t be ashamed for the way she flinched at thunderclaps, but she had a billion other things to be ashamed for, and they all spun together in her head. Eventually, she felt sure, it wouldn’t even matter the reason—only the feeling behind it, constant and unending. Guilt, lest she ever forget.

All of this ran through her head, and she didn’t even think about saying it out loud. Instead, she let Yaz lead the silence, her face creased slightly in contemplation as she turned down the final road which would lead to the Doctor’s front porch. 

“Maybe it is,” Yaz said at long last. “Suppose there can be some downsides too. Not thinking about what you’re doing. Or you know, thinking about others.” She paused, the crease between her brow deepening. “Maybe it’s more like—about what you do, instead of who you are, you know? Because I’ve definitely done things I’m not proud of, but that’s not—well, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”

She trailed off uncertainly and shrugged, biting her lip. The Doctor watched her out of the corner of her eye, curiosity sparked despite herself.

“Do you think about that a lot, Yaz?” she asked quietly. “Whether you’re a good person?”

Yaz frowned. Her hands, the Doctor noticed, had tightened slightly on the wheel. 

“Yeah, I think so,” she said after a moment. “It’s important to me, doing the right thing. Just because I’ve seen people be mean, and I don’t want to be like them. I want to be better.”

“I see.” The Doctor nodded, parsing the words slowly. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised by the answer. Yasmin Khan radiated kindness, as did Grace, and Ryan, and Graham as well. They wore it as easy as a second skin, as if it were instinct, rather than work.

Maybe some people were like that, the Doctor thought. Maybe kindness simply came naturally to some, and harder to others. It had always come hard to her, more akin to rage than anything else. A fury, the kind that bubbled and burned and rose until it boiled over, and all that was left to do was turn it outward. Get angry at the world, grit her teeth, and help a lost child, before she hurt something instead.

Anger came easily to the Doctor, and kindness hard. Sometimes, she wondered if they were two sides of the same coin.

“You seem like that kind of person too,” Yaz said, cutting through the Doctor’s contemplation. She startled, looking up, then frowned.

“What?”

Yaz glanced at her, and gave a tentative smile. “You know. You seem like the kind of person who likes to do good.”

The Doctor stared at her for a long moment, speechless. Vaguely, she wondered if she really was that good of an actor, or if humans were just particularly blind. “Yaz, do you know who I am?”

“Yeah,” Yaz said, and leaned forward, squinting out the windshield. She didn’t look at the Doctor. “Why?”

The Doctor only gaped at her, mouth hanging slightly open. She shut it rapidly, and gave a small shake of her head. For a moment, she thought about explaining, and then decided that she never could. Besides, selfishly, she didn’t want to. Should she start listing the litany of travesties she had committed, she might chase away one of the few people who could stand to be around her. 

“Never mind,” she said instead. “But I’m not that. Sorry to disappoint. I mostly just play chess and drink, if I’m being honest.”

The chess was a lie, but only a small one. She still had some pride left, enough that she didn’t want Yaz to know that her evening activities consisted solely of drinking herself into a stupor. 

Yaz didn’t look at her, but she smiled in a way that told the Doctor she already knew. “Yeah, I sort of got that from the last time I visited. Er, no offense.”

The Doctor grimaced. “None taken.” She turned back to the front, and watched her house steady approach, only a single front window lit against the gloom. “Suppose that’s the last time you come ‘round for chess.”

She’d meant for them to sound entirely casual, but they only rung pathetic to her ears. However, Yaz didn’t seem to think so. She only shook her head, still smiling as she eased the car into the Doctor’s driveway.

“Well, I don’t fancy getting beaten again—” she put the car in park, then turned in her seat to meet the Doctor’s eyes— “but I wouldn’t mind learning a few tricks. Er, sober, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh—” The Doctor stared, taken aback by the offer laid down before her. “Oh, definitely. Wouldn’t mind company, me. Gets rather lonely up here.”

Which was a remarkable change, not only from her outlook a few days before, where she’d been convinced she would never want to see anybody inside her house again, but also because she was admitting it out loud, and to another person no less. 

And to the person to whom which she’d drunkenly embarrassed herself, besides. The Doctor sat there, reeling slightly with astonishment, and was so preoccupied trying to parse the sudden change that she missed Yaz’s next words.

“—then I’ll have to visit more often. Mind, it looks like you’ve already got someone up there. Or did you just leave the light on?”

“What?” The Doctor twisted to peer out the window, squinting through rain-streaked glass to make out the single square of light shining through the black. “Oh. I—”

Had definitely turned the lights off. Or rather, had never turned them on, because the lights worked by motion sensors—they only turned on when the Doctor bothered to move around, unless she set them specifically to stay.

And she hadn’t.

“—must be Marie,” she finished, though she knew that Marie went home at five. “Probably stayed late to get some work done.”

Marie never stayed late, and didn’t have enough work to force her to do so anyway. The Doctor considered all of this as she fumbled for the door handle and pressed it down, then pushed the door open and stumbled out into the freezing rain.

“I ought to check on her,” she called sagely over her shoulder as she climbed out of the car, and didn’t look back lest she accidentally reveal the worry on her face. “Thank you for the ride, Yaz.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you in?” Concern sliced through Yaz’s tone, but the Doctor cut it off with a wave of her hand.

“I’ll be fine!” she called, and before Yaz could argue, shut the door behind her, cutting off any further protest. She took a few steps forward, enough to shroud herself in darkness, then turned and waved, just to make sure there were no hard feelings.

Yaz waved back, lip caught between her teeth. Clearly, she couldn’t decide if she should stay or go, but after several long moments, when it became clear that the Doctor wouldn’t move until she left, her hands went to the wheel. The car rumbled once more to life, and a few seconds later, the Doctor watched Yaz pull out of the driveway and drive off, back into the pounding rain.

She watched the car fade into the distance for nearly a minute, the rain plastering her hair to her face, then turned back to the house. The single light was now joined by another, this one closer to the kitchen.

It couldn’t be Marie. Never, in the twenty years that she’d worked for the Doctor, had she stayed to such a late hour.

It couldn’t be her. But as the Doctor started for the door, trepidation building in her chest, she couldn’t help but pray that it was.

——————

“Doctor, are you ready?”

“No,” the Doctor snapped, only to immediately feel bad at the look on the aide’s face. She was young, and clearly new, and at the Doctor’s harsh tone, she stepped back, hands coming together nervously.

“S-sorry,” she stuttered. “I’ll, uh, go check on the seating.”

“Wait—!” the Doctor called after her, but she had already turned and fled, leaving the Doctor’s voice to bounce around the empty changing room.

“Sorry,” she muttered, but it didn’t matter. There was nobody there to hear it. 

“Great,” she grumbled, and swept a hand through disheveled hair, wishing she had bothered to tug a comb through it. She wasn’t used to longer hair, and she had slept badly, waking up sweating in a pile of sheets and pillows from a nightmare she could scarcely remember. The meeting with Missy the night prior hadn’t helped things either; rather than clearing anything up, it had only muddied the waters, giving the Doctor yet another reason to lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling.

Now, as she stared at herself in the mirror, taking in the bloodshot eyes, the mussed hair, the angry scar across her brow, and the pale, drawn look about her face, she couldn’t help but wonder how anybody could possibly see a hero in her. The robes, replete with the high collar, disguised nothing; they only cast a stark contrast to her gaunt, unhealthy appearance.

Weeks out of the hospital, and she still looked like she was on her deathbed. Sometimes, she even felt it. They had removed the monitor the day before, but occasionally she could still feel it beeping out a warning in the back of her head. 

Somehow, she was supposed to give a speech like this.

“D-Doctor?” 

The aide’s nervous tones sounded again, and this time, before turning, the Doctor sucked in a deep breath to calm. No need to snap, she reminded herself, when she could save it for those who deserved it. After all, she would almost certainly be seeing Missy today, which would provide her ample opportunity. It might even provide some measure of satisfaction.

Though after the night before, she couldn’t even be sure of that. 

“Yes?” She turned to face the aide, forcing her face into a rictus of calm. She wasn’t sure it entirely worked; the aide’s gaze roamed over her uncertainly, before she stepped fully inside the changing room, hands clasped carefully together.

“The ceremony is about to start,” she said. “Your friend is here to deliver your speech card.”

“My—oh, for Rassilon’s sake.” The Doctor sighed, all attempts at impatience washing away. Was it a record, she wondered, to get so irritated so early in the day? The proceedings had barely started, and yet somehow Missy was already getting under her skin. “Is she waiting for me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother.” Missy’s voice sounded from the doorway, and the Doctor stifled a groan, which only grew into a scowl as Missy stepped inside, her trademark smirk upon her face. “I can see you’re decent. Well. Somewhat.”

“Keep your face like that and it’ll freeze that way,” the Doctor tossed back, to which Missy’s smile only grew. The aide looked between them, and without a word, scurried off. The Doctor could only think she’d done the smart thing.

“I can think of far worse fates,” Missy said. “Now, do you want your speech card, or would you like to go in blind?”

She extended a hand, a small holographic chip pressed between two fingers. The Doctor stared at it, then snatched it from her hand and held it up to the light, trying to get a look at the code.

“Sorry to say, that won’t work,” Missy said as she cocked her head and squinted. “They’re not going to let you see the speech before you actually give it, you know. Why risk a petty disagreement?”

“Hardly petty,” the Doctor snapped, but lowered the chip all the same, hiding it within her curled fist. “I never formally agreed to this, you know. They have me at gunpoint.”

“You mean they have Earth at gunpoint,” Missy corrected with a small smile. When the Doctor scowled in response, she frowned and clucked her tongue. “Oh, please, Doctor! You should know by now you’re only playing at choosing. Why won’t you just declare a side?”

“You mean your side?” the Doctor shot back. “Or the Time Lords? Because as far as I can see, Missy, you’re on the same one. I’ve no idea what you’re planning, nor do I think I’d like it if I did.”

Missy’s smile dropped then, abruptly as a rock. She stepped forward and circled the Doctor, her gaze cold.

“You might be surprised,” she said quietly. “You know, a little trust goes a long way.”

“Trust?” The Doctor drew back in disbelief. “Missy, why do you think I would ever—”

“Er, Doctor?” a timid voice called from the door. Together they turned, to find the same aide as before, standing uncomfortably in the doorway.

“The crowds are starting to arrive,” she said, gaze sliding nervously between the Doctor and Missy. “It’s time for the participants to take their seats on the stage.”

“Oh, delightful!” Missy spun and clapped her hands together, so suddenly that the aide took a nervous step back. She laughed, rather meanly, and stepped toward the aide, who shrunk against the wall. “Well, it’s about time I take my place as well.”

“And where will that be?” the Doctor called to her. The chip enclosed in her fist was digging into her hand, the edges sharp enough to hurt.

Missy paused, and pretended to think about it. Then she turned, and shot the Doctor an enormous smile.

“In the wings,” she said, “making sure nobody gets any ideas.”

—————

By the time the Doctor climbed upon the stage and took her seat in the row of chairs set up against the enormous backdrop, the outdoor pavilion was nearly full. People milled about as others took their seats, the excited chatter a low rumble that vibrated across the slowly-filling space. Those taking their spots closest to the stage shot curious glances at those seated upon it, and when they saw the Doctor among the speakers, their eyes widened and their gazes lingered, as if they couldn’t believe they were seeing her in the flesh.

It was an odd, uncomfortable reality, and the Doctor chafed under it, just as she chafed under the bright lights and the heavy robes and the elevated platform on which she sat. The others upon the stage—High Council members, a general or two, the mayor of the Citadel—appeared perfectly at ease with the spotlight, and the Doctor couldn’t help but eye them enviously, wondering if it was a learned skill, or an inborn one.

“Ah, Doctor. I was hoping to speak with you.”

A voice cut through her thoughts, and the Doctor twisted in her seat to look up, blinking at man outline in sharp lights. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, and then she recognized him immediately.

“Lord President,” she said stiffly. “Nice to see you.”

Rassilon smiled, the expression as unyielding as a concrete. As if somebody had poured it and left it to harden. “Nice to see you too—or, should I say, nice to see you looking well. I understand you’ve had a rough recuperation.”

“That’s one way to put it,” the Doctor replied, even as she cast a swift, desperate glance around. Useless; everybody could see that she was talking to the president, and thus, they avoided her gaze. Probably an intelligent move. “Well, rough is relative, but I’ve certainly had better. These cloth fittings have definitely set me back a bit.”

Rassilon pursed his lips. “A necessary evil. You understand, surely, that with so much to be done for the celebrations, certain things had to be…expedited.”

Including her own health, apparently. The Doctor had no doubt that, had she been unable to make it up the stage, they would have simply propped her up and given her an aide to use as a mouthpiece.

“Definitely,” she agreed, though the word tasted bitter on her tongue. What did he want with her, anyway? The ceremony was due to start any moment, and the president stood gabbing as if he had all the time in the world. “But it makes sense. We’re all excited for the ceremony to begin. Must be any minute now.”

“Must be.” Rassilon’s lips pressed flat together as his cold eyes roamed over her form, searching for—the Doctor didn’t know what. He clearly didn’t find it, however, for after a moment his expression firmed and he dropped unexpectedly into the seat beside her, so close she caught a whiff of some kind of horrible perfume.

Leave it to the president of Gallifrey to wear _perfume_.

“Doctor.” His voice came low and harsh, just by her ear. “I presume you are prepared for your speech.”

He wasn’t looking at her, but watching the other speakers slowly take their seats, flashing smiles and giving the occasional wave. The Doctor mirrored him, casting her gaze anywhere but in his direction.

“Pretty hard to be prepared,” she answered, laying each word carefully, “when you don’t even know what it’s about.”

Beside her, Rassilon made a small, dismissive noise in his throat, then nodded to a passing High Council member. “The content is irrelevant, Doctor. What matters is how you deliver it. I would expect that somebody so enthusiastic in their participation would bring some of that with them today.”

The president and herself, the Doctor reflected, had very different ideas about the definition of enthusiasm. She couldn’t even recall agreeing to participate. 

But it didn’t matter. They weren’t asking for her agreement; they were forcing it out of her. All it would take, should she refuse to play her part, would be a slight twist of a timeline. A twist, and Earth would no longer exist. The human race would have died out somewhere in Africa long before they learned how to stand on two feet. 

And all she had to do was fumble a speech.

The Doctor sucked in a deep breath, felt the frantic fluttering of her hearts against her ribcage, and wondered wildly if she might trip up on nerves alone. She certainly felt like it.

“You know I’m enthusiastic,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I love surprises, me. Reckon I can deliver a good speech if I put my mind to it.”

“I imagine you can,” Rassilon said smoothly. There came a rustle of cloth, and when the Doctor looked over, Rassilon was already on his feet, carefully smoothing out the front of his robes. He finished, then looked to the Doctor and gave her a stiff nod.

“Good luck, Doctor,” he said, raising his voice just enough for others to hear, “and I’m very excited to hear what you have to say.”

Which meant, surely, that he would be watching her like a hawk. The Doctor didn’t respond, but only forced a nod, and waited until he turned his back to sag into her chair, hearts going at twice their normal rate. Nerves fluttered in her stomach, drifting dangerously close to nausea.

Wouldn’t _that_ be a sight. Rather than deliver a speech, she might just stumble to the podium, and vomit onto her footwear.

It would certainly be memorable.

A few minutes passed before the lights across the pavilion dimmed, and the chattering fell into a hushed silence as people stilled in their seats, waiting for the proceedings to begin. They didn’t have to wait long; not a minute after the crowd fell silent, the first speaker came forth, and with a booming voice, welcomed the crowds to the opening ceremony of the victory celebrations.

“We thank you,” he began, to a vast, attentive audience, “for you attendance, and your sacrifice. We are here because we all have known loss, and now we know beyond it. We are here to celebrate the hard won victory we have attained, and look toward the future that we will build. Together, we will make Gallifrey into something great again—something greater than we have ever been.”

The words, wrapped in elegance and distilled to their emotional core, seethed with propaganda. The Doctor sat there, teeth set on edge, and tried desperately to tune them out, even as she listened for her cue. 

“…and, although we all have made sacrifices, we have one person in particular to thank for our victory. Citizens of the Citadel, we are pleased to welcome our hero, known as the Doctor, to say a few words.”

He stepped to the side and turned halfway, hand sweeping back as if to guide her. The Doctor rose and, moving as if in a dream, came up to the podium.

Her head spun as she took in the crowds, the endless rows of faces barely visible under the spotlights. Together they swam into one immutable mass, their expressions impossible to discern. Other than a quick wave of applause, they made no noise, but the Doctor could feel the tension in the air anyway, a collective held breath as the entire pavilion leaned forward, waiting to catch sight of the person who had saved Gallifrey and ended the war.

All she could think was that she felt sick to her stomach. All she could feel was the chip pressed deep into her palm, and the scar across her face, devastatingly visible, tingling against her skin. She reached podium, nodded at the announcer, then, with sweaty fingers, fumbled the speech card into a slot in the podium.

Immediately, a wall of text appeared before her, visible to her eyes and nobody else’s. A telepathic trick, so that she would be able to both read the speech and maintain a genial eye contact with the crowd. It was incredibly slick, and she hated it. 

“Thank you for coming,” she began, suppressing a wince as the microphones embedded in the podium picked up her voice and sent it rebounding across the entire pavilion. Should she turn around, she would see her own visage, broadcast on an enormous screen. The thought of it—her own eyes, watching her—bored into her back and sent sweat trickling down her neck.

She hated this. She hated the clothes she wore, she hated the stage she stood upon, she hated the taste of false words in her mouth. She hated the humiliation of not knowing what they were. She could only read, and pray that she played her part well.

“I’m sure we can all agree that this victory has been hard fought and meaningful,” she continued, forcing herself to focus on the words before her. That was all she had to do. A simple task, if a monumental one. “And we have all played our part. Even myself.” She paused, as indicated by the speech card, and used the break to suck in a breath.

“What I did was for the good of everybody,” she continued after a moment, “and that is why I am here today. Because end of the war does not come without wounds. The universe itself lies in shreds, and it is up to us to repair it.”

Propaganda. Her hearts began to pound, faster and faster as the reality of what she was doing sunk in. This was what they wanted—why they hadn’t let her see the speech beforehand. They were using her to promote the new system of interference to all of Time Lord society. Using her as a figurehead, with which they could take over the entire universe.

And she couldn’t stop. The fate of the human race hung over her head, as heavy as the planet itself. Inside her stiff robes, she could feel beads of sweat trickling down her back. Awful shame filled her mouth, and with nowhere to go, she could only stand and take it.

“The Time Lords have long sequestered themselves from the rest of the universe,” she continued, each word pulled from her throat as if by a force not her own, “but it is high time that we change. The Time War itself has shown us that we can never allow a repeat of such a situation. Because we refused to intervene when we should have, we allowed the Daleks to turn reality into a warzone. This can never happen again.”

The entire crowd sat taut and breathless, hanging on to each word that fell from her mouth. They watched her, silent and waiting, trapped under a spell weaved by her own words.

No. Not her words. But it was her voice they were listening to. Her face that they were watching. The entirety of the Citadel sat at her feet, waiting, the Doctor realized, for her to tell them what to do.

They wanted to listen to her. No—they were listening to her. That was why the High Council had put her upon this stage; because they’d realized before she had just what kind of influence she possessed. She held power, and they didn’t.

She paused, even though it wasn’t on the card, as the realization hit. It surged over her like a wave, knocking the wind from her lungs. 

All this power, and she wasn’t even using it. All this power, and she could turn the entirety of the world on its head. All this power, and—

She had destroyed half the universe.

The feeling dropped like a stone. Her hearts froze, then thudded dully in her chest. Without thinking, she reached forward to grab the podium, just so she wouldn’t sag. Guilt washed over her, hot enough to burn her tongue.

“And it never will happen again,” she continued, her voice a breathy gasp. Vaguely, she wondered if the people before her had noticed the slip. Then, she wondered if the people behind her had. If Rassilon had noticed—

“—because we will ensure that the universe remains in good hands.” She forced her voice louder, drowning out her own fear. “Our hands. From this point forward, I am proud to say that we are ending our sequestration from the rest of the universe. We will participate, and if necessary, we will lead. And that is why I, and my co-representative, will be taking over quadrant 2XB—”

She faltered and fell silent, frozen in shock. For a long moment, nobody moved, perhaps as surprised as she was by the revelation. Then, behind her, somebody coughed. The Doctor didn’t know who it was, but she understood the message.

She didn’t listen. She only stared at the words, silence stretching into uncomfortable seconds, as she tried to remember how to breathe.

She hadn’t agreed to this. She’d said no such thing. And yet here she was, standing before the entirety of the Citadel, trapping her own self in a future she couldn’t stand. Sealing a deal she hadn’t even made.

The illusion of choice was fragile, but it was all she had. She’d clung to it, perhaps without even realizing it. Maybe, somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d naively hoped that her once-best friend might let her have this.

Instead she’d torn out the rug beneath her feet, and left the Doctor to fall on her face in front of the entire world. Betrayal, combined with humiliation, cut twice as deep. Anger surged through her, so strong she nearly rocked back with the force of it, and her fingers, still gripping the podium, dug into the wood.

Anger, and despair. It burrowed deep inside her chest and sat there, aching. She’d never trusted her, she realized with a hint of dizzying panic, and it hadn’t even mattered. The conversation in the library—the feeling that maybe something could be how it once was—was all a lie. A game, orchestrated by the master of such things. And the Doctor, taken for a fool.

“—will be taking over quadrant 2XB,” she whispered hoarsely, rote numbness steering her back on track. Underneath her skin, betrayal roiled, but she held it back by her teeth. The fate of the human race sat upon her shoulders.

She only needed a few more words.

“And I will be happy to do my part in this endeavor,” she continued, each word another bruise. “As I’m sure we all will. I hope that you will stand by my side as we work together to build a future for the universe—a future cloaked in light, rather than darkness.”

She delivered the final word so feebly that it took the crowd a moment to realize she had finished. Then, as if as one, they leaned back; the spell broke. Applause broke out, and then built, and the Doctor knew then, with a sinking of her hearts, that they had been listening.

A death warrant to the freedom of the universe, signed by hers truly.

She wanted to throw up. Nausea rose in her throat, but she tamped it down.

First, she had somebody to talk to.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, the fun part about having written the rest of the story is I can update whenever I want lmao. Anyway I'm excited about this chapter so I thought I'd yeet it. Thank you all for the kind comments and kudos, I really appreciate them!

She didn’t wait until the applause was over. She turned, and instead of returning to her seat, left the stage, leaving a wake of whispers on her tail. She didn’t even care. Leaving the stage was a calculated risk, but a small one; to the audience, it would only be an oddity, easily forgotten by the time the next speaker approached the podium. The High Council had their speech—she doubted they would skewer her for one small slip.

So she left the stage, and headed straight for the wings.

There were precious few souls about. A couple aides flitted to and fro, holographic schedules clutched in their hands, but beyond that, the space behind the stage was empty, and quiet. From behind, she could hear the echoing voice of the next speaker, along with the distant rustle of the crowd. 

She didn’t turn around.

“Missy!” Her voice rebounded across the empty space behind the pavilion, eerie in its echo. “Missy!”

“Looking for me, dear?”

The voice came from the left, and just behind. The Doctor stopped in her tracks, then spun around, hands curling into fists.

Missy leaned against a sweeping pillar, one elbow propped against the stone, the other hand splayed in front of her face to examine her nails. She didn’t look at the Doctor.

“You.” The Doctor took a step forward, and then another, fury surging. “You knew. You tricked me.”

Missy scoffed, and twisted her hand to examine her palm. “Barely a trick. You knew the plan was already set in motion. You just didn’t agree. Not that it mattered, because the High Council was already on my si—”

“You TRICKED ME!” All semblance of control gone, the Doctor rushed forward, pinning Missy to the pillar. Fingers dug deep against the rough stone, just above Missy’s shoulders, and stayed there. Missy, to her credit, barely shrunk back. Her eyes only widened slightly in surprise, and then she tilted her chin to look the Doctor in the eye.

“Are you really going to whinge about it?” Her voice was soft, but the words were harsh. “When we both knew it was coming? I told you, Doctor. The High Council has their plans set in motion. I only ensured your compliance.”

“You forced me into a decision in front of the entire planet,” the Doctor snarled, but despite the bite in her words, she held none of it in her chest. The whole world was spinning away from beneath her feet, dragging her into darkness. She couldn’t see the end, and so she clung to the pillar, Missy trapped beneath her, if only because any moment she might be swept away. “You told me to trust you, and you humiliated me. You—you—”

“Saved your life,” Missy snapped, and with one hand, reached up to wrench the Doctor’s wrist off of the stone, pushing it away. She didn’t take the opening to escape, however, but stayed there, pressed so close the Doctor could feel the double beat of her hearts. “You don’t think the High Council knew that you didn’t want to work with me? You don’t think they were starting to get itchy feet? Maybe you were too lost in whatever depression you’ve got going on to see it, but I’ve been there. If I didn’t act, they would have.”

“That’s not true,” the Doctor growled, but couldn’t find the rage to back it up. The words made entirely too much sense, and even worse, Missy’s voice rung with an honesty she was starting to recognize beneath the biting words and sharp demeanor. “And it didn’t matter. You could have told me beforehand. You knew when you handed me that card, and you didn’t even think—”

“Oh, I thought about it,” Missy said coldly, and with an abrupt movement, pushed the Doctor away, side stepping out beneath her hold. “And I decided that would be foolish. You’re a wild card, Doctor, especially in this body.” 

She leaned forward then, eyes boring straight into the Doctor’s, and shook her head. A small smile curved across her face. “You’ve got so much rage now. It’s almost funny. I would have thought, when you wiped out half the universe, that it would have broken you. Instead, you’ve just—” She paused, then reached out with one finger, tracing the line of the Doctor’s jaw. Instinct rose to jerk away, but the Doctor pushed it back. She wasn’t sure why.

“Just what?” she asked instead, voice jagged as a cliff’s edge. Missy studied her for a long moment, then shook her head.

“You haven’t even changed,” she said softly. “The war changed everybody, Doctor, but it didn’t change you.”

For a moment, the Doctor stared, speechless. Pure, hot indignation flashed up inside of her, but she was too stunned to give it voice.

“How dare you,” she forced out after a long moment—with rage, or something else, she wasn’t sure. “You don’t—you can’t—”

She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. She would never understand— _could_ never understand—what the Doctor had done, or how she felt. They were too wildly different, and furthermore too damned similar, to ever find common ground. The war had ripped the Doctor’s entire life to shreds, and even now, as she tried desperately to pick up the pieces, the world was hard at work scattering them among the wind.

She didn’t even know who she was. But she couldn’t be the same person on this side of the war as she had been on the other. The idea was horrifying in its implication; that she could be both the person who traveled among the stars, and the person who had ripped time apart to save it, that she could be both an innocent and a monster, who held more power than she knew what to do with, and worse, had used it freely.

“You’re wrong.” She nearly choked on the words. “You’re wrong, Missy, and if there’s anybody who came out of this unscathed, then it’s you. Because you’re still the same monster you’ve always been, only now you’re figuring out how to hide it.”

Rage leapt to Missy’s face and teetered there, but never spilled. She stepped forward, bringing her nose just an inch from the Doctor’s face, and pressed a finger slowly to her chest.

“I may be a monster,” she hissed, “but I’m a monster on your side, Doctor. And you’re on mine. You may not know it yet, because you’re an idiot who commits one reprehensible act and doesn’t know how to put herself back together, but you need to trust me. The universe depends on it.”

The Doctor stared at her, uncomprehending. “You’re lying.”

“About the universe?” Missy raised an eyebrow. “I wish I was. But then, you know more about that than me.”

“I don’t,” the Doctor said, but uncertainty rung in her voice. “What are you talking about? Why should I trust you?”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Missy leaned forward, her gaze boring into the Doctor’s, a smirk stretched across her features. “I’m your oldest friend.”

“Once,” the Doctor retorted, but confusion had scattered her rage, and she couldn’t summon the emotion to make it work. “You’re nothing to me now, Missy. Just a memory.”

Missy scoffed. “A memory standing right in front of your face? Please, Doctor. That’s dramatic, even for you. Besides…”

She trailed off, her gaze roaming over the Doctor’s features, lingering for only a moment on her lips. 

“Whatever we had between us,” she said, “once or forever, it doesn’t matter. It’s the future I’m talking about, Doctor. And it could be ours, if you would only listen for once in your life.”

“Terrible listener, me,” the Doctor spat, but she was hesitating despite herself, and she hated it. Humiliation still lingered, prickling over her skin, and bitterness ached in her chest. The memory of that moment on stage—her whole life, decided before her very eyes—flickered, and burned. “And I don’t want it. Not the way you did it. That was humiliating. It was cruel. And maybe that’s the kind of person you are, but it’s not the kind of person I am. And it’s never the kind of person I would work with.”

“And yet here we are, bound together.” Missy raised an eyebrow, amusement playing at her features. “Look at it how you want, Doctor, but I did that for your own good. A moment’s humiliation to protect you from yourself.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” the Doctor retorted, but even she didn’t believe the words. Missy was right, in one way, even if the Doctor didn’t want to admit it. She never would have said those words willingly. She never would have agreed—she still didn’t agree now, not that she had a choice. In a roundabout way, Missy might have saved her from her own destruction.

But it still stung, deep in her gut, the humiliation of the moment and dread for the future, mingling together. She had been used, once again by her oldest friend, who now claimed that she’d done it for her own good. As if the sincerity in her gaze might make up for the eons of betrayal that stretched behind them.

“Why would you do that?” she whispered, realizing to let that she had let the anger slip from her tone completely. Now the words only sounded plaintive, bordering on the despair she couldn’t hold back. “Why are you trying to use me? Do really hate me so much that you won’t just let me die?”

She wasn’t sure what reaction she expected, but she didn’t expect Missy’s eyes to widen in surprise, for her to take a slight step back, as if the very thought of it was repellent.

“You really think this comes from hatred?” she asked, eyes locked upon the Doctor’s face, a slight crease between her brow. As if she were honestly confused.

“Where else would it come from?” the Doctor asked, and as Missy didn’t answer, felt the world swirl once more beneath her feet. Nothing was making sense anymore, not the way that it used to, and much as she tried to grasp desperately for a familiar connection—hatred in the face of love—when she searched Missy’s eyes, she couldn’t find it.

If Missy didn’t hate her, then the Doctor couldn’t either. She didn’t have the strength. 

“Oh, Doctor.” Missy leaned forward, her gaze in that moment clear and entirely guileless, and reached out to touch one finger to her jaw. “Where do you think?”

The ground beneath her feet shattered, and the Doctor spiraled. The world, already spiderwebbed with confusion, cracked into a thousand pieces, and among none of them could the Doctor find sense. Because this didn’t work. Missy couldn’t love her anymore, and the thought that she might was scarier than the hate she’d become used to.

“No,” she whispered, and shook her head, but didn’t draw away. “You can’t, Missy. I don’t—I don’t want—”

Missy paused, fingers brushing against her jaw, and disappointment fell over her face. Her eyes searched the Doctor’s, and then she pulled her hand back, drawing space between them.

“Well,” she said briskly, though not quite brisk enough to disguise the hurt in her voice, “if that’s how it is.”

And she stepped back and half-turned to go. The Doctor watched her, head spinning, something breaking in her chest, and before she could make it too far, reached out to snag her sleeve.

“Wait.” Missy stopped, then slowly turned to face her. Her gaze, shuttered and cold, ran over the Doctor. 

“What is it?”

“I don’t want this.” The Doctor stepped forward, hand still caught in her sleeve, half-wary of the distant crowd, but not enough to care. “I don’t want what you’re doing.”

Missy eyed her for a moment, then sniffed. “Then you’d do so kindly as to let go of me. You can understand the mixed signals.”

Anger sparked deep within her chest, but this time she played by Missy’s rules. She contained it, and controlled it. Took another step forward, and didn’t let go of her sleeve. “You can’t just use me. You can’t humiliate me. I’m not your plaything, Missy, and I don’t like you.”

“I think we’ve long established that,” Missy replied coldly, and with one movement, wrenched her sleeve out of the Doctor’s grasp. Still, she didn’t turn. “Unfortunately, you don’t have much of a choice.”

“I know.” The Doctor swallowed hard, and took another step forward. “But I don’t care what you want, or what you’re doing for me. I don’t—I don’t want you to care about me.”

Hurt flashed in Missy’s eyes, just like she knew it would. This time, it was Missy who stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “Then what is it you want, Doctor? Or do you need another century of moping to figure that out?”

The Doctor didn’t immediately answer. Her eyes roamed over Missy’s face, studying the little details and committing them to memory. The light flecks in her eyes. The curve of her lips.

“I don’t know,” she answered, and she took her anger, held it in her hands, and used it. Leaned forward and, before Missy could react or pull away, pressed her lips to hers.

It held no love, but it burned with rage, and she reveled in it. The feeling of it flooded her chest, chased away the loneliness and despair, and ached like the temptation of pressing a finger to a bruise. It was anger held at a distance, hurt held in control, and it was hers.

For a moment, she felt powerful. Then she pulled away, saw Missy’s smirk, and knew that she had done exactly what she wanted.

So she did the only thing she could think of, and cut her off before she could say anything about it.

—————

The door to her house was unlocked, where she was sure she had locked it. She twisted the handle and pushed it open, fear fluttering in her chest. Not fear of bodily harm—she had long passed caring about such a thing—but fear of what might be coming. Fear of the unknown, and its contents.

“Hello?” She stepped over the threshold with light footsteps, cursing the uncertainty in her voice. “Marie? I didn’t know you stayed late. You never stayed late before.”

Nobody answered. The Doctor cursed softly, and closed the door behind her, then stepped forward. The lights above taunted her, as did the light seeping from the kitchen entrance. She took another step forward, and as she did, thought she heard a quiet shuffle of movement.

Probably not her imagination, then. Probably not any visiting government officials, either. They usually came during the daytime, if they managed to get in at all before she had security drag them away. Which only raised another question—where were her security team? They would have been alerted to a break in, and though they were stationed off site, they were quick responders, and well-trained. They should have been here by now.

Unless somebody disabled the alarm.

Dreadful certainty swept through her, so strong she paused for a second to collect herself. Took a deep breath, and crept towards the kitchen, even though every part of her wished she wouldn’t. Whatever this was—and she thought she knew what it was—she didn’t want to face it.

With every cell in her body, she wished that she had stayed at Grace’s.

There came another clatter of noise as she reached the kitchen entrance, followed by the sound of the fridge door opening. A low mutter, and then a curse, as the intruder rummaged through her shelves. The Doctor paused, then frowned as she heard the tell-tale click of a can of ginger beer opening.

“Oi!” That, more than anything, overcame her trepidation. She swept around the corner and froze, framed in the doorway, as the intruder spun around, one hand clasped around a can of ginger beer.

“Oh,” he said, and then a devilish, horribly familiar smile spread across his face. Dark eyes crinkled, then he rolled his shoulders and relaxed, raising a hand to adjust the lapel of his purple coat. He sniffed, and it was so familiar her stomach flipped. “I’ll be honest, love, I thought you were asleep.”

The Doctor stared. And stared. Somewhere deep in her gut, anger boiled, but didn’t overflow. She was too stunned, smacked in the face with the appearance of somebody she hadn’t expected to see for four more days.

“It’s you,” she whispered, and the Master’s smile grew, broad teeth flashing white.

“It’s me,” he said, and tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something close to rage. Familiar, _familiar_. “Did you miss me?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, I'm back! thank you for your lovely comments and responses, I'm so happy to read them all fr. Just an fyi, this chapter starts with references to Missy and the Doctor sleeping together, but doesn't explain anything in explicit detail. If you are not into that thing, you can skip the first couple paragraphs and should be okay.

She awoke sometime in the middle of the night, sweating from another nightmare she couldn’t entirely recall, and it took her a long moment to realize she wasn’t in her own room. Missy lay fast asleep beside her, one arm thrown haphazardly across her chest, and one leg half curled around her own.

The Doctor stared at the ceiling, the weight of Missy’s arm heavy against her ribcage, and tried to parse what had happened, though she needn’t have bothered. It wasn’t worth figuring out. The truth lay stark before her eyes, and it was only now, lying wide awake in a dark room not her own, that the stinging reality of what she had done was starting to sink in.

It hadn’t been love, she was sure of that. At least, it hadn’t been love on her end, but she wasn’t sure about the other, and the casual touch of Missy’s body against hers spoke of something entirely different. Something old, and forgotten. Something that echoed back to their days at the Academy, when they had been young and nearly in love, if not entirely.

But that had been innocent and sweet, and this had been a lesson in power, though she still wasn’t sure on which end. She couldn’t tell if the act she had committed was a victory of her own ego, or another example of Missy’s manipulation.

Who had won? she wondered, and then thought: did there need to be a winner?

But of course there had to be. The thought that there might not, that Missy wasn’t even thinking in such terms, frightened her more than the fact that they had slept together. It changed the parameters too much. Their relationship might have meant something eons ago, but now it was no more than a down and dirty competition, and the Doctor had to cling to that, else she’d be swept away.

But if it wasn’t—

The thought was claustrophobic. It pressed down upon her chest, laden with the weight of Missy’s arm, and all of a sudden she couldn’t breath. Panic fluttered in her chest, and she sucked in a breath, then choked on it. 

It was too much. The world didn’t follow the rules anymore, and she had given in to it, grabbing what she’d wanted with greedy fingers. She had thought she was winning, but now she lay stranded, trapped in a dark room with her own worst enemy, a future she didn’t even want stretching before her.

Fighting with every breath she had, only she didn’t have any. The room spun, the darkness encroached, and all of a sudden, the Doctor couldn’t take it anymore. She pushed Missy’s hand away and sat straight up, then swung her legs over the side of the bed and lunged for the bathroom, hearts pounding.

She made it through the doorway and, stumbling, gripped the sink so hard her knuckles turned white. In the mirror, with only a faint light shining from the electric toothbrush Missy kept, she looked gaunt and haggard, dark circles hanging underneath her eyes. Though she’d fallen asleep in her underwear—her robes lay somewhere on the floor—she felt naked and seen, like somebody had torn away her skin to reveal the gaping hole underneath.

She had slept with her worst enemy. She had slept with a monster. And for a terrible moment, somewhere deep in the proceedings, she had hungered for it, not out of an anger or a need for control that she could easily justify, but out of loneliness. It hadn’t only been rage that had driven her, but a need to be with someone, to feel like she wasn’t abandoned, if only for a moment. 

Weak. She was weak, and she’d been used and humiliated, and her only act of rebellion had been leading her to bed. It could hardly be called such a thing. Shame swept through her, flooding her mouth with nausea, and she bowed her head, waiting for the gag reflex to come. It didn’t. She only felt like a fool, standing half-dressed in somebody else’s bathroom, her agency tossed upon the floor with the rest of her clothing.

Pathetic. The word echoed in her mind and she shut her eyes, clenching her teeth together. How, she wondered with a hint of despair, was she ever going to escape this? Was this her future, tied to a person she couldn’t stand, following their lead as they clawed their way to the top of the universe? Who was she, to let this happen? Who was she to stand by Missy’s side?

Missy was a monster, and if she chose to be a bystander, she’d be just as bad. Guilt welled up in her, pressing tears behind her eyelids. She didn’t let them come. She only kept her eyes squeezed shut and swallowed hard, trying to think.

She had to do something. She couldn’t stay like this, or she really would break, just like Missy had expected of her. Freedom lay just beyond her grasp, but she had to grasp it, or she would wither and die. She had to—she had to—

She had to talk to the president.

The idea bloomed softly in her mind, and with such quiet genius that she cranked open her eyes and stared at her reflection, mouth half open in surprise. Quickly, she parsed through the half-built plan, and wondered if it would work. She wasn’t sure that it would. Then again, she wasn’t sure she had a choice.

The Doctor stared at her reflection for a moment longer, then snapped her jaw shut and turned on her heel. She groped her way through the darkness, found her robes cast upon the floor, and dressed quickly, the idea churning in her mind. She refused to slow, lest it fade before she left the room. She could already feel her courage dwindling slightly. Her plan was daunting, so she had to do it quickly, or she never would.

She finished dressing and left the room, not bothering to glance back. She didn’t want to see Missy, lying alone in that bed. Rassilon help her, but she might feel a bit of sympathy.

—————

She didn’t say anything. She only stared at him, frozen except for the two hearts in her chest. They banged out of rhythm, so loud she could feel it in her throat.

“You came early,” she choked out, and waited for her anger to overflow, for fury to sweep her into action, but it didn’t come. Maybe it was the new face, or the pure surprise of seeing him, or the stupid suit he wore. She couldn’t decide. “You were supposed to get here in four days. Why would you…?”

The Master—or was it still Missy?—shrugged, and leaned back, closing the fridge door with his shoulders, “Oh, you know, itchy fingers. I got excited, and I just had to jump the gun.” He grinned, so wide it nearly split his face in two.

“Besides,” he drawled, “I just couldn’t wait to see you.”

An open lie. She could see it on his face, that he didn’t even try to hide it. Rage simmered behind his eyes, twitched in the fingers that clasped the ginger beer can, so tight the aluminum was denting. He hated her. It spilled out of him, aching and loud enough to hurt.

Well, fine. Two could play at that game.

“You bastard.” She stalked forward, reached out and snatched the ginger beer can from his hand, sloshing the liquid over both of them. His lip curled, but she didn’t care. “What the hell are you doing here so early? No, forget that. Why are you here? What the hell do you want from me?”

She’d pressed close to him without realizing it, the arm that clenched the ginger beer held against his own, her face mere inches from his. She hadn’t meant to slice the space between them so neatly, and for a moment she felt embarrassed, as if caught doing something she shouldn’t have, but then she pushed it away.

Her home, her rules. He didn’t deserve personal space, not when he so often broke it on his own terms.

His eyes flicked over her face and then he laughed, right from the gut. “Oh, you’ve still got that rage!” He shook his head, and pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “Nice to see you haven’t changed a bit. Nice to see you too, Doctor, though you might not feel the same. I mean, I figured you wouldn’t be happy, but this is entirely—”

“Shut UP!” With her free hand she connected her palm with his shoulder, shoving him roughly into the fridge. He did shut up for a moment, eyes widening in surprise, and then he dropped his chin and broke into laughter once more.

“Well, if you’ve got to get your jollies out—”

“Tell me why you’re here,” the Doctor growled, eyes flicking over his face, “and tell me how I can get you out of my house and off of Earth as fast as possible. I don’t care what the High Council wants. I don’t have to deal with you, and I won’t.”

His laughter died away and he looked at her then, a small smile curling across his lips. “Are you sure about that, love?”

The Doctor paused, hand loosening slightly. “Sure about what?”

The Master grinned broadly, eyes dancing. “Oh, don’t play dumb, Doctor. You may have gotten Earth, but we both know that the High Council still controls you. You still have to do what they say, whether you like it or not.”

He paused for a moment, gaze roaming over her face, and his smile turned sharp. “And I’m sorry to say you’ll be having to put up with me for quite some time.”

The Doctor’s hands loosened entirely. The ginger beer can nearly slipped from her fingers. Familiar dread fluttered in her chest, but she tamped it down. 

“What do you mean?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

She expected him to smirk, or perhaps laugh again. Instead, his eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Didn’t you listen to the message?”

Yes. No. She hadn’t made it past the first line. She didn’t tell him that, however—she didn’t say anything. It didn’t matter. He saw it in his face.

“Oh, dear.” He shook his head, a slow smile sliding once more across his face. “Oh, you really like to do yourself in, don’t you?”

“Tell me what the message said,” she hissed, and her grip tightened on his shoulder once more, fingers balling into the stiff fabric. “Why are you staying?”

“Doctor.” His smile grew, teetering just on the verge of laughter. “Don’t you know? Earth has been absorbed into my quadrant. I’m your new co-representative.”

—————

Though it was the middle of the night, there was a thin light of light peeking beneath the door of the president’s office. The Doctor saw it, and couldn’t help a wave of relief; should she push her plan off until morning, she wasn’t sure she’d have the courage to go through with it.

She wasn’t sure she had the courage now. The fate of the human race hung over her head, an impossibly heavy weight, but so did her own future, and the pressure of the latter pushed her onward. 

She couldn’t stay on the path they were leading her down. It wasn’t even a matter of morality; rather, it was simple agency she craved. The illusion of choice had always been just that—an illusion—but at this point, she’d pay anything to have it back in her hands.

She didn’t knock on the door. She only pushed it open, knowing she was probably risking life and limb to do so, and stepped inside.

President Rassilon looked up in surprise from where he sat behind his desk. When he saw her, his eyes narrowed, and he reached out to swipe away the holographic screen he had been examining. Then he leaned forward, and templed his hands upon his desk.

“Doctor.” He didn’t sound at all pleased to see her, though to be fair, she could understand the sentiment. “What brings you to my office at such a late hour? Oh, and I should mention—” his lip curled— “we missed you after the ceremony.”

A warning, barely cloaked behind his words. She ignored it and stepped forward, swallowing a lump of fear. “I want a transfer to Earth. As its representative.”

Rassilon drew back in surprise. Then he laughed softly. “You can’t be serious. You’ve already been assigned.”

“I know.” Fear was sticking in her throat again, the fate of the human race pressing at her shoulders, but she forced herself to ignore it. “I don’t care. Tomorrow, I’m going to announce that I’ve been transferred. Whether you agree or not.”

Rassilon studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His lip no longer curled upward. Instead, his face was still as stone. “You do understand that I can have you killed where you stand. As many times as necessary.”

“You won’t, though.” She wasn’t entirely sure, actually, but she pushed through anyway. “You need me. I saw the way they listened to me yesterday. You’ve introduced me to all of Gallifrey as their hero. You won’t kill me now.”

Rassilon tilted his head slightly, regarding her. “I can simply eliminate those humans you seem to admire so much.”

This was exactly what the Doctor had been afraid of. Still, she didn’t back down. She’d planned for this, worked it through in her mind. All she had to do was call his bluff.

“Can you really eliminate the entire human race before I make the announcement?” When Rassilon didn’t respond, except to raise an eyebrow, she pressed forward. “I know it takes time. Our forces were crippled by the war, and we’re still rebuilding. Do you even have the temporal weaponry to wipe out an entire species before tomorrow morning?”

She hesitated, and, unable to read the look on his face, tossed her last die into the gamble. “Or I could slip word to the media right now. I’m sure they’d be dying for an interview. Even in the middle of the night.”

That was all it took—she saw it in the muscle that jumped ever so slightly in his jaw. For nearly twenty linear seconds, he only stared at her. Then, he dropped his chin and let out the slightest of sighs. 

“You like to play games, Doctor,” he said, “almost as much as your friend. You should know that I have little patience for them.”

“Great,” the Doctor said, “neither do I.”

Rassilon looked up, his gaze boring directly into her. His face was hard, practically immovable, but the slightest sign of rage quivered in his eyes. 

“I am not a person of games and tricks, Doctor,” he said. “I play politics when I have to, and that is all. Don’t presume that you can have your way because you’ve been given some small amount of status. I’d hesitate before I’d let it go to that big head of yours.”

“Are you threatening me?” the Doctor asked, with more courage than she felt. Rassilon paused, then narrowed his eyes.

“I’m reminding you,” he said, “of where you stand. There is a world of ways in which we can work with you. We have chosen the kindest.”

Manipulated into a future she couldn’t stand. Working with her enemy. Watching her own people take over the universe, and forced to promote it.

“If you’re kind,” she said slowly, feeling out the words, “then I think we can come to some agreement. Seeing as I’m not asking much. Besides, this wasn’t even your idea, was it?”

She paused, and to her satisfaction, watched Rassilon lean back slightly, regarding her with new curiosity.

“Please enlighten me as to what you’re referring to,” he said after a moment.

Relief rushed through the Doctor’s chest, but she forced herself not to let it show. Instead, she straightened, drawing up as much height as she could.

“I know that Missy wants me to work with her,” she said. “I know that she’s been advocating with me. She thinks that we’ll be powerful together. And I think she’s right.”

Rassilon had leaned forward again, by now the interest clear in his eyes.

“Missy and I could be very powerful together,” she continued, gathering confidence, “but I don’t want it. I know you’ll never believe me, but I don’t. I don’t want to rule the largest quadrant in the galaxy. I don’t want to be a figurehead. I want Earth, and that’s it. I want the humans safe.”

She finished, and for a moment, there lay silence across the room. Then Rassilon snorted in disbelief.

“And that’s it,” he said, watching her carefully, brow furrowed. As if he didn’t quite believe her. “You want to be in charge of Earth. You know that we would still need you, Doctor. Your name, and your face, are the hope upon which our world rides. We can’t let you drop into obscurity.”

“I know,” the Doctor said, though her insides twisted at the thought, “and I don’t care about that. Use me however you want, whenever you need somebody to put in front of your parades and celebrations. It doesn’t matter to me. But when you don’t need me, then put me on Earth, and let me stay there.”

She held her breath as she finished, and waited for his verdict. It took him a long time to deliver one. He studied her for nearly a minute, his gaze impassive as it swept over her face, picking her apart. Trying to understand.

“And what is it you really want, Doctor?” he asked softly, after an impossibly long silence. “Out of all of this? What could you possibly stand to gain?”

The Doctor stared at him, taken by surprise. She didn’t know how to answer. She didn’t know the answer herself, and it almost struck her as unfair, to answer such a question, when all she wanted—all she wanted—

She paused, and let the moment hang in the air, putting word to the longing that sat in her chest.

“I want to forget,” she said, and meant it.

—————

She didn’t return to Missy’s room. She walked right by it, just as the first light of dawn filtered through the muggy sky, and refused to look at the door. For a brief moment, she wondered if Missy had already woken, or if she was waking up now, to realize that she had been left in the middle of the night.

And then she shook the thought from her head. She didn’t care. Even if she did, it didn’t matter. The problem was solved, the case finished. If the Doctor had it her way, they would never meet again. Not in quadrant 2XB, and not on Earth.

Missy had done everything to use her for her own gain, and with her final blow, the Doctor had gotten her back. She couldn’t help but take some satisfaction in the fact.

Two could play at the games she ran. The Doctor could even win them, should she put her mind to it.

She made it to her room and stepped inside, only to pause, though she didn’t know why. It was a mess, but that wasn’t unusual. Clothes were strewn about the room, items tossed haphazardly, the bed unmade. She wouldn’t bother to clean, but she would need to pack, and pick up the TARDIS.

She should get to it immediately. Leave before anybody caught up with her. But as she stood in the doorway, breathless in her own victory, she couldn’t stop a shaky sense of unease from passing over her. The post-rush of adrenaline, dragging her into exhaustion.

She didn’t want to admit that Rassilon scared her, but the problem was, she knew what he’d done. What he was going to do. And he knew that she knew.

The almost-sin, that he wore so shamelessly that it made it impossible to look him in the eye. 

“Steady there,” she murmured to herself, and took another step inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. Absentmindedly, she swept an eye over the mess of her room, trying to catalog what she should pack. She didn’t have much time.

She didn’t have much time. She’d dealt the last blow in Missy’s tit-for-tat, and now she was going to run, just like she always did, because it was the only choice left to her. Run to Earth, and leave the Time Lords behind to reach across the universe with greedy fingers.

“Alright,” she muttered, and forced herself to straighten, pushing her whirling thoughts to the side. “Alright. Time to get a shift on, yeah?”

There was nobody there to answer her. But it didn’t matter, the Doctor decided. She’d head to Earth, and she’d figure things out. Make new friends, even. First thing she would do.

Or maybe, she thought as she moved to her dresser, and began to pull items of clothing out, she would start off with a very stiff drink.

**End of Part I.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you for the lovely response to last chapter, we're back with another one which is legit just. doctor/master shenanigans. for like the next ten chapters too (there is a plot though, I promise). Hope you enjoy, and as always, comments and kudos are appreciated!

It took several long moments for the words to sink in. They bounced around her head, echoing with such dissonance that she struggled to make sense of them at all.

“What?” she whispered, and felt, with the word, as if both her lungs were collapsing inward. “What are you talking about?”

The Master’s grin never left. He stood easily, despite his awkward position against the fridge. “Oh, dear. You really didn’t read the messages, did you?”

“You can’t be,” the Doctor whispered, her head spinning, the room turning. Nausea churned in her gut. “They wouldn’t do this to me.”

At that the Master’s face twisted into a scoff. “Really? The High Council? Do you enjoy living in delusion, Doctor, or is it just—” his eyes fell to the can of ginger beer in her hand— “a side effect of your daily habits?”

“Shut up,” the Doctor whispered, and with that rage and fear rose up in her, blind unfairness striking out at the world. “Shut UP!” She shoved the ginger beer can into his chest, hard enough to push him into the fridge, and didn’t wait for him to catch it. Instead she spun around, and ran a rough hand through her hair, registering only distant the crash of the can to the floor.

“No,” she whispered, and, shaking her head, knew that she was falling apart, and worse, in front of him, but she couldn’t get a handle. Her world was shattering, everything she’d carefully put into place falling to pieces. “No, no, no—”

“Careful, love.” The Master’s amused tones cut through her panic. “Might hurt yourself with all that emotion.”

“You DID THIS!” She spun around and grabbed him by the collar, pushing him backwards, not into the fridge this time, but against the edge of the counter. She heard the thud as his back hit the sharp edge, heard the air go out of him, and didn’t have time to react before he shoved her away, so hard she crashed into a nearby chair. She fell into it, groping for balance, caught herself and glared up at him, her teeth bared into a snarl.

“Get off my planet,” she hissed, “before I kill you.”

“Oooh.” The Master shook his head in mock disappointment. “Look at you. What do you call yourself now, king of the Earth? President?” He laughed, the sound hard. “Thought you didn’t want power, and yet—here we are.”

The Doctor’s nails dug into the seat of the chair, prying up the cheap varnish. “I’m not here to rule,” she growled. “They’re under my protection. And I’ll kill you before you do anything to hurt a single person on this planet.”

He chuckled then, and rolled his shoulders, hands rising in faux surrender. “Alright, alright. I can play by your rules, Doctor. Well, until I get bored.” He flashed a smile, which only widened as she started out of her chair, half-ready to throw herself at him again. “Oh, c’mon, don’t look so glum. After all, in this big old house?”

He glanced upwards, taking in the high ceiling. “You must be desperate for company.”

“I have company,” the Doctor retorted. “And I don’t need you. Why are you here, anyway? What could you possibly stand to gain by coming to Earth?”

The Master only shrugged and stepped forward, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Oh, you know. A little fun. See the backwaters of the universe. Also, of course—” he grinned, and in that moment she knew the next words were a lie— “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Liar,” she spat. “You did this, didn’t you? You couldn’t stand the fact that I left you back—”

The Master’s smile disappeared in an instant, and fury flared in his eyes.

“Oh, Doctor,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low. “You know I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones. After all, what is history these days?”

Everything, and nothing. The Time Lords, in taking over, had wiped the history of the universe into oblivion, turned the past into the future they wanted. And the Doctor had done the same thing with Missy, all those years ago. She’d taken their history, chucked it in the bin, and hadn’t looked back. 

She didn’t want to look back now. Yet here he was, standing in her kitchen, ginger beer soaking his front. 

For a moment, she just glowered him. Then, in one movement, she pushed herself to her feet and crossed the room, stopping only when she was a mere inch from his face.

“Fine,” she said, though it wasn’t fine, it would never be fine, but once more, she was trapped. Caught by the Master and the High Council, only this time she had no way to escape from the situation. “Stay if you want. But this is my planet, and it’s under my control. Test my power, and I’ll do everything I can to make your life miserable.”

The Master didn’t immediately answer. His gaze dropped to her rainbow shirt, her suspenders and light blue coat, and a slow smirk crept over his face.

“You’re threatening me in a rainbow,” he said, only to flinch as her hand started towards his face. “Alright, love. We’ll discuss it in the morning, why don’t we?” He grinned, crooked. “After all, there’s much to be done.”

“There isn’t,” the Doctor snapped at him, but she huffed and drew back, suddenly distinctly aware of the lack of space between them. How would she survive the night, she wondered desperately, sleeping in the same house? She simply wouldn’t sleep. “But fine. I’m going to bed. Take a guest bedroom, I don’t care. Don’t bother me, because I don’t want to see your face.”

“Until morning?” He grinned, and her fingers curled, the urge to smack the expression away rising. She didn’t. Instead she sucked in a deep breath and spun on her heel, stalking towards the direction of her bedroom.

She could feel his grin, his gaze boring into her back, but she didn’t look around. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

—————

The Doctor didn’t sleep. She shucked her clothes, donning actual pajamas this time, and crawled into bed, but kept her lamp on. It cast a warm glow across the room, and she clung to the small comfort like a child, shivering under her blankets though it wasn’t cold. For a while after she retired, she heard the Master moving about the kitchen, the scrape of a chair and the open and close of the fridge. She had no idea what he was doing, beyond delving into her collection of ginger beer. She didn’t want to know.

And she did, too. His presence gnawed at her, flipped her stomach on its head with anxiety. Her home, oppressive, silent, and lonely though it was, had always been some sort of a safe harbor from the rest of the world. A place where she could fall to pieces, quiet and alone.

Now it had been breached, and so, cursing herself for her cowardice, she retreated to her room and stayed there, unable even to face another option. She felt unmoored, adrift in a sea of panic and helplessness, lost because she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to fight him, and she couldn’t work with him. Once again, she was caught. 

Once again, her freedom had been taken from her, and she didn’t know how to cope, so she didn’t. She lay there for hours, listening for the sound of his footsteps long after she’d heard them recede, and wished that she had stayed at Grace’s house. It wouldn’t have fixed the problem, but it would have pushed it off for another day.

By the time dawn filtered through her curtains, the Doctor was half out of her mind, caught in a malaise of exhaustion and anxiety. She lay there for a long time, watching the room slowly lighten, drowning out the light of her lamp, then reached over and flipped it off. Then she sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, and sighed, burying her face in her hands.

She couldn’t do this. She had done many things over her lives, things more terrible than this, but now she stood teetering on the brink, the Master’s hand behind her, ready to push. He had always been so good at that, pushing her right up to the edge, and letting go just as she was about to fall.

Of course, many times he’d tried to push her off too, but she’d always managed to escape. Only today, she didn’t know how.

But she had to.

She hesitated before leaving her room, dithering for only a moment over her pajamas, and then decided with a hint of defiance that it didn’t matter. The Master may make a point of being perfectly groomed, in any incarnation, but this was the Doctor’s house. She followed her own rules.

The ginger beer can lay on the floor where it had fallen, in a puddle of its own contents. The Doctor wrinkled her nose at it as she passed, but didn’t stop to pick it up. Not until she had—something in her. Coffee, or orange juice, or maybe she’d skip straight to a fresh can of ginger beer, and go through this entire ordeal incapacitated.

Except with all of Earth now caught between herself and her worst enemy, she couldn’t. She sighed, pausing in front of the fridge, then opened it and reached for the orange juice.

She had to have a clear head, at least for now. At least until she figured how to kick him off of her planet.

“I’d say good morning, but you look a mess.”

The Doctor froze, fingers brushing the orange juice cartoon. Behind her, silence hung, interrupted only by the brief rustle of cloth as the Master settled against what she guessed to be the counter. She didn’t turn.

“I could say the same to you.”

She couldn’t see his grin, but she heard it anyway, seeping between his words. “You haven’t even turned around.”

“Don’t have to.” But she did anyway, leaving the orange juice. She didn’t want it anymore, not when his presence had ruined what little appetite she might have had. Instead she closed the door and fell back against it, shivering slightly at the cool feel of the metal against her back.

Her jab was entirely off base; contrary to herself, the Master stood perfectly groomed, his hair combed and clothes pressed, though today he had eschewed the purple coat for the simple plaid suit underneath. It was entirely color coded, and entirely silly, in the Doctor’s opinion, but she knew she didn’t have the ground to stand upon. 

“Could trim your beard,” she tossed out and he only grinned. 

“Didn’t have a razor,” he replied, and tilted his head, thumbs jammed into his pockets. “You know, the host usually provides such items.”

Irritation rose up in the Doctor, but she forced it into a disbelieving snort. “I’m not a hotel. And you’re not a guest. Besides, I know you’ve got your TARDIS tucked away somewhere. You can stay there, and out of my house.”

“And eschew our budding partnership?” His grin widened. “Oh, c’mon, Doctor. You know we’re meant to work together. Why don’t you make it easy on both of us, and crack a smile for once in your life?”

Immediately, the irritation morphed to anger. She straightened, her hands balling into fists, and stepped forward, only narrowly avoiding the puddle of ginger beer upon the floor. 

“You won’t get under my skin,” she growled, even though they both knew he already was. “I don’t know what you want from me, or what game you’re going to play, but I’m going to find out what it is. And I’m going to stop it.”

“Oh. Sure.” He straightened as well, but didn’t remove his thumbs from his pockets. It was all manufactured, she could tell, the careful arrogance, and it dug at her. Missy had always knew how to hold back her anger, and use it where the Doctor could not. This incarnation seemed the same, but not quite—it bubbled closer to the surface, and that only made her more determined to pry it out.

To make him break, where he had tried to break her, so many times. 

“If it’s a game I’m playing,” he continued, only to pause, letting the words dangle in the air, “it’s not the kind I’d let you in on, Doctor. Not with that filthy attitude of yours. I mean, you’ve always been stubborn, but this?” He shook his head, scoffed— “this is just obtuse.”

“Always worth it against you,” she retorted, and felt a wave of satisfaction as anger flared in his eyes. This time he did step forward, his hands balling in his pockets. She forced herself not to draw away as he neared, stopping only when his face was inches from her own.

“You know, I think this incarnation is the most bloody annoying version I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet,” he said, his eyes roaming over her face, nose crinkling in disgust. She met the expression with bared teeth of her own, and for a fleeting instinct, wondered just how pleasurable it would be to ram his nose into his eyes. 

“Can’t say the same,” she returned, eyes flicking over his face. “Seeing as all of you drive me up the wall.”

He stared at her for a moment, and then his lips twitched into what might have been a scoff, might have been a smile. “And I relish every moment of it.”

“I know,” she growled, and when he made no move to draw away, to even tear his eyes from her, she used both hands to shove him bodily away, a grin of her own flickering across her face as he crashed back into the counter with a curse. 

“Hurts, huh?” she smirked, an expression which only widened as he glared at her. His perfectly combed hair had come askew with the movement, flopping across his face.

“Push me around all you want,” he hissed, “but you still have to put up with me, Doctor. Whether you like it or not.”

Her nose wrinkled, and she opened her mouth to shoot back a fitting retort—only to be cut off by the ring of the phone, just off to her right. She saw the Master’s eyes flicker to it, saw them widen, then narrow as an idea hit, and then she leapt into action.

“Oh no you don’t—” She lunged for the phone just as he did, but she was closer and snatched it up just before his fingers scraped uselessly across the case. He glowered at her, but to her surprise, didn’t yank it from her fingers. Instead he only drew back, crossing his arms as she swiped open the call and held the device to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Doctor?” Yaz’s voice came across the line, and the Doctor froze. Her hearts pounded once, then seemed to stop.

“Yaz?” Why would Yasmin Khan be calling her? Why—how could any of the little life she’d managed to scrape together outside of her home be invading at this very instant, when she was trapped with the one person she had to keep away from them? She saw the Master lean in ever so slightly, eyes glimmering with curiosity, and turned away, lowering her voice. “What are you calling me for?”

“Uh—” She could hear the balk in Yaz’s tone, and instantly felt a surge of regret. “I wanted to check that you were alright. You know, because of the light in your house. I wasn’t really thinking at the time, but when I was driving back, I sort of realized that it was a little odd, having a light on, unless—”

“It’s fine,” she hissed, only to realize to late that once again, she’d allowed harshness to slice through. Quickly, conscious of the Master’s eyes upon her, she took a deep breath and forced herself to calm. “I mean—it’s an old friend, who showed up for a surprise visit. Not anything worth bothering about.”

“Oh,” Yaz said, clearly surprised. There came a pause over the line, and then she said, “Is it somebody from your home?”

“What?” The Doctor, busy watching the Master, who grinned and waggled his fingers at her, nearly didn’t catch the question. “Uh, yes. He’s here for business. Shouldn’t be sticking around too long, though.”

“Oh.” Was that disappointment in Yaz’s tone? She couldn’t tell. “How long? Maybe we could come around and say hi. I’m free this weekend—”

“No,” the Doctor hissed, only to backtrack at the surprised, almost insulted note of silence which hung over the line. “I mean, might not be a good time, this weekend. Some other time, maybe.”

“Sure,” Yaz agreed quickly, but the Doctor barely heard it. The Master was watching her, shifting impatiently, and when she looked at him, he mouthed ‘who is it?’

“Nobody,” the Doctor snapped at him.

“So is that a no?” Yaz asked, and the Doctor jerked back to the phone call.

“What? No, not at all. It’s fine. Sorry, what did you say?” she asked, and heard Yaz’s sigh over the phone.

“So next week is fine,” she said slowly, patiently. “To come by. Just to say hello.”

“What?” The Doctor drew back. “No, wait—”

And that was when the Master lost patience. He leaned forward, plucked the phone from her hands, and ignored her stifled yell to bring it to his own ear.

“That’ll be fine,” he said smoothly, ducking neatly as the Doctor lunged for him. “Sorry, she just woke up. Next Wednesday? Sure. Lovely to talk to you. Oh, of course. You get going.”

He lowered the phone just as the Doctor reached him, and she wrenched it from his grasp, but it was too late; the call was over.

“You—” She dropped the phone and went for his face, but this time he was ready for it and ducked again, narrowly avoiding reaching fingers. She fell against the counter and spun around, but he was already out of reach.

“Lousy show of trust,” he quipped, but she just glared at him, roiling with anger, too much to contain and yet determined not to let it loose.

If he could hold it in, she could too.

“Get away from me,” she growled, “and don’t touch my friends. Or I’ll make you regret you ever came here.”

He frowned, one eyebrow rising. “You really like to threaten, don’t you?” When she didn’t answer, he shrugged, then tossed the phone once in the air before catching it and tucking it in his pocket. Then he looked at her, and flashed a grin. “Alright, love. Pleasant as this conversation has been, I’m off. I have calls to make.”

He was doing it again. Dangling the implication over her head, knowing she wanted to rise to the bait and snatch the phone from his pocket. Possibly beat him over the head with it.

She didn’t. Instead she glowered at him for a long moment, collecting herself, then took a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh.

“Me too,” she said, and before he could respond, turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen.


	15. Chapter 15

She didn’t go to her room. Instead, she bypassed it directly and headed towards the back hall, down which her TARDIS sat. 

She never went inside the TARDIS, not anymore. Not since memories of the war had become so deeply etched into the console, when she couldn’t turn without catching stains of phantom blood and broken timelines across the floor.

All over now. But the memories had been fresh, and they stayed fresh, the hurt lingering long after the events had faded into the past.

But she needed to form a telepathic connection to Gallifrey, and the best way to do it was inside the TARDIS.

The doors creaked open reluctantly when she pressed her hand upon them, and she couldn’t help but wince in guilt.

“Sorry, old girl,” she whispered as she stepped inside, and to her relief, watched the TARDIS light up slowly in response. Forgiving her absence, even after all these years. “I’ll come around more, I promise.”

But it was an empty promise, because even as she made her short way to the console, not glancing to the left or right, she could feel the memories creeping in. The particular deja vu that came with stumbling across a place implanted so strong in one’s mind.

The Doctor’s hands were soaked in blood, but so was her TARDIS, and though she knew it wasn’t fair, she couldn’t forgive either of them. 

“Alright,” she murmured as she reached the console, hands running across dusty controls. “Let’s put up a connection, shall we? All the way to Gallifrey.”

The TARDIS beeped sleepily in response, and a moment later the console began to whir, the central pillar moving up and down. The Doctor waited, a small, sad smile on her face, until at last the TARDIS beeped once more, signaling her readiness.

“Time to go,” she muttered, and reached for the controls to hook into, cringing slightly in anticipation. She hated long distance telepathic communication. She hated most kind of telepathic communication these days—something related to trauma, Dr. Benton had guessed—but long distance was the worst.

But if she was going to protest the Master’s placement, then she would have to suck it up. So she reached out, hooked herself into the controls and, with a held breath, forced a connection to Gallifrey.

It hurt. She held tight to it, clinging as if on a tightrope, and waited until somebody picked up on the other end. A High Council member, maybe; an aide, more likely. Nobody, if she was incredibly unlucky.

It took an impossibly long time—so long, she began to doubt she’d get anybody at all. But just when she decreed the plan failed, the line juddered slightly, and then opened.

“Hello?” A new presence, slightly annoyed, floated over the line, and the Doctor breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Suras.” The man who had first delivered the news of her chaining to the Master, decades ago. She didn’t particularly like him, but he was fairly reasonable. She might be able to sway him. “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh.” He didn’t sound entirely pleased. “I suppose this is about—”

“The Master,” the Doctor said, working hard to keep the snarl from her voice. “And his arrival to Earth. He came early.”

“Ah.” Surprise, echoing over the line. Of course—the Master wouldn’t bother to alert the High Council to the change of plans. “Well, a few days hardly makes a difference in the grand scheme—”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

Silence. She waited for a long moment, before sensing, rather than hearing, a sigh.

“Agreements change, Doctor. Politics happen. The absorption of Earth—a level five planet—into a larger quadrant was inevitable. The Master volunteered, and it made sense, considering you had intended to work with him.”

“I didn’t intend anything,” the Doctor snarled. “This has nothing to do with me, Suras. I don’t want him on this planet, and I won’t have him usurping my authority, do you understand? This deal is over. Now.”

Silence rang again over the line. Then, Suras’ icy tones echoed.

“I do understand, Doctor,” he said testily, “and I understand far more than you do. Including, by the way, the position you are in. Which I would highly suggest you re-examine.”

The Doctor hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Suras replied, “despite your earlier…insubordination, you are still under control of the High Council. You work with us, whether you want to or not. And seventy years ago, you may have been able to stage a surprise coup on your precious planet, but today, we are much stronger. I would check your advantages, Doctor, and see if you actually have any.”

“I—” The Doctor paused, caught in indecision. The problem was, he was right. The deal she had brokered with Rassilon was a one-time thing, successful only in its surprise. Today, the Time Lords’ temporal weaponry was restored to full power, and the High Council held tight reigns across the entire universe. Should she try anything, they could wipe out Earth as easily as chewing off a hangnail.

Which meant that the Doctor was powerless. But she couldn’t admit defeat yet.

“You have to do something,” she hissed, desperation leaking into her tone despite herself. “You can’t just foist this on me without my knowledge. It’s—”

“Necessary,” Suras said coldly, “and timely. It may seem unexpected to you, Doctor, but you should know the the High Council doesn’t make decisions lightly. With the ceremonies coming up, it was important that we showed unity—”

Ceremonies. The Doctor’s hearts sunk. Of course, she hadn’t forgotten—they were imprinted on her memory, fresh every five years with dread—but the business with the Master had tossed them temporarily from her brain. In a few months time, she would return to Gallifrey for the ceremonies celebrating the end of the war—ceremonies that she hated with all her hearts, and tried desperately every time to avoid. And this time, she realized with a fresh wave of horror, the Master would accompany her. The Time Lords would want to present an image of them working together, which meant that, even if she avoided him on Earth, then for a full two weeks on Gallifrey, they would be attached at the hip.

Her life was turning for the worse, control spiraling through her fingers. The telepathic tightrope she balanced upon bounced, and she stumbled. 

She couldn’t do this.

“Fine,” she snapped, even though it wasn’t fine, it was nowhere near fine, “I’ll deal with it. For now. Until I can figure out how to toss him out by myself.”

It was the kind of thing Suras must have expected, for he sighed, and she got the distinct impression of him pinching his nose. “Whatever you say, Doctor. Now, are you going to end this telepathic connection before you fall on your face, or am I?”

He could sense her discomfort over the line. Of course he could. Worse, he was right—with the awful realization of the coming ceremonies, and their forced partnership, the Doctor’s control on the telepathic line was slipping. Any moment, her thoughts would swirl out of control. Already, she could feel the first flutters of panic in her chest.

“I will,” she tossed over the line and then, before he could respond, and before the world could fully slip out from beneath her feet, she slapped the telepathic line shut.

The shock wave hit her immediately. She stumbled back, momentarily psychically defenseless, and for a terrible second groped in utter blackness. Memories crowded at her mind, as real as if she were living them, and she swung a hand out wildly as if to beat them back.

Her knuckles connected painfully with a lever on the console, and that, more than anything, jerked her back to reality. She gasped with the pain, stumbled, then caught her balance, sagging against the console.

“For Rassilon’s—” Nausea heaved within her, but she choked it back. She’d already put the poor TARDIS through enough. She wouldn’t puke her guts over the controls as well. “Sorry, dear.”

The TARDIS only beeped disconsolately, and she reached out with one hand to pat the console. Then she drew back, and for a long moment, simply stood there, trying to catch her breath, as she wondered what the hell she was going to do now. 

—————

Five minutes later, when her nausea subsided and she stepped warily out of the TARDIS, she had no answer. She had nowhere to go, either, so she headed dazedly to the kitchen, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t meet the Master on the way there.

She didn’t. Instead, when she stepped inside the kitchen, she found Marie bent over the floor with a rag, hard at work sopping up the mess the Doctor had left the night before.

“Marie!” She froze in the doorway, sudden fear running through her. At her name, Marie paused and looked up, blond tresses falling into her face. She didn’t particularly look as if she were enjoying the task.

“Ma’am?”

“You can’t be here,” the Doctor said, and Marie’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“I’ll be out of here as soon as I’m done—”

“No.” The Doctor shook her head, panic once more curling in her gut. It was a panic not her own, but rather directed towards the people around her, those the Master wouldn’t hesitate to use for his own gain—or amusement, should he feel like it. “No, you can’t be here. I’m giving you leave. Starting now.”

“What?” Marie’s eyes widened and she straightened, sitting back on her heels. “But—”

“No buts,” the Doctor said, and crossed the room, grabbing Marie by the arm and dragging her to her feet. “Full pay for the rest of your life—no, triple it. Allowances to your family, if you need them. It’ll all be organized. But from now on, you stay home and you don’t come back. And tell the people who deliver my food, and the people who—”

“Ma’am—” Marie struggled against her grip, confusion clear across her expression. “Ma’am! Are you alright?”

The Doctor stopped at the question, so suddenly that Marie stumbled as well, and might have fallen if not for the Doctor’s hand buried in her sleeve.

“Why do you ask?” she said dumbly. “You’ve never asked me that before.”

“I—” Marie’s eyes roamed uncertainly over her face, as if trying to find something she couldn’t name. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You just seem—”

Standoffish. Grouchy. Clearly didn’t want Marie, or anybody else to talk to her, ever. As if she hated the very sight of them, and she did, but not because of their status. Because of what they represented, in connection to her, and what she couldn’t give up even though she knew how to cook her own food and clean her own home. She hated having staff, but they were the only human interaction she had, until now.

And she wouldn’t have again. Not until the Master left.

“I’m sorry,” she said honestly, then hesitated. “You’re an excellent worker, Marie. And I don’t—I don’t mean you any ill will. Trust me when I say I’m doing this for your own good.”

“Doing what for my own good?” Marie was still staring at her, brow furrowed as if she didn’t quite get it. “Are you fir—”

“Doctor.” A smooth voice behind her made them both jump. The Doctor whirled around, and without thinking, shoved Marie bodily behind her. “Are you keeping pets from me?”

“Ma’am—” 

“Ma’am?” The Master’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open in mock surprise. “Hang on—” he drew back, and swung a finger between them both— “you let them call you ma’am? You, of all people?”

“No,” the Doctor said automatically, hearts pounding. “I mean—it doesn’t matter. She’s leaving. Marie, go out the front door. Leave, and don’t come back.”

“But—”

“Oh, c’mon, Doctor.” The Master stepped forward, a smile growing on his face. “I like this one. She can stay if she wants.”

“She doesn’t want to,” the Doctor snapped, her voice low. “Marie. Leave now.”

For a moment, she felt Marie shift, uncertain, but then she sucked in a breath and stepped out behind the Doctor. With a nervous glance between her and the Master, she stepped around him, and into the hallway. 

The Master nodded as she sidestepped him, then turned to the Doctor, and shot her a grin. Unreadable, but it glimmered with excitement.

His hand twitched to his pocket, so fast she nearly missed it.

“NO!” She dove for him, knocking the device from his hands, and they went down together in a pile of limbs, the Master laughing uproariously beneath her. The metal object skittered across the hardwood floor, and when she looked up, she saw that it was nothing more than a cigarette lighter.

“Oh, your face!” he gasped, chest shaking with mirth. “Oh, that was funny!”

“My—” Her face twisted in disgust, and she pushed off of him, leaving him to lie upon the ground, still laughing. 

“You _bastard_.” She glared at him, nails digging into her palms, and when he didn’t get up, nor made any sign that he heard, she shoved a boot into his side. Hard, just enough to hurt, but not so much as to take the wind out of him.

“Oof!” He curled against the impact, laughter dropping away, then shot her a glare. “C’mon, love. Can’t take a joke?”

“That wasn’t a joke,” she hissed. Distantly, she heard the slam of the front door, and relief collapsed within her chest. At least Marie was gone. She’d get to the phone soon, make sure none of the other staff arrived. “That was cruel. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh—” He levered himself into a sitting position and raised an eyebrow. “You’re really going to ask me that?”

With a snarl, she leaned down to grab his arm, wrenching him to his feet. He came willingly, too surprised to argue, but affront flashed across his expression and the moment he reached his feet he leaned forward to bury his hands in the fabric of her pajama shirt, dragging her close.

“Careful with the hands, love,” he snarled, hot breath blowing into her face. “Don’t want to get frisky.”

“Shut up,” she growled, and just to make it clear, sent a foot swinging into his calf, hard enough to have him hunching over. “I told you not to play games with me. This is one of them. Don’t touch my staff, do you understand?”

It took him a moment to reply, his face contorted from the bruise she had surely inflicted.

“You really do have a temper, don’t you?” he forced out after a moment. She only scowled.

“Maybe you just bring it out of me.”

“Sure—oof.” He straightened, wincing, and shook out the leg she’d connected with. “Alright, love. Before you storm off again, we need to talk.”

She drew back and raised an eyebrow, a scoff already on her lips. “Oh, do we?”

“We do.” He stepped around her, moving towards the fridge though he didn’t break eye contact. She watched him, eyes narrowed, as he opened the fridge door, removed the milk, then turned to the pantry and began to rummage. A moment later he pulled out a box of cornflakes, followed by a bowl, and set them on the counter.

She couldn’t help disbelief from twitching at her face. “Are you just going to sit there and have my cereal?”

“While we talk?” He dumped an overflowing mountain of cornflakes into the bowl, and followed it up with so much milk that the mountain rose, threatening to spill over the sides. “Yes. And it’s our cereal, now. We’re co-representatives, if you can’t recall.”

“We’re co-nothing,” she shot back, though the words of the High Council rung in her ear. No way out of the situation. No room to maneuver. “What were your phone calls about?”

He paused and glanced up at her, then lowered the milk carton. “What was yours about?”

“I asked you first.”

The Master snorted, then reached for the spoon. She watched him dig in, flecks of milk staining his scruffy beard, and couldn’t help a wave of disgust. 

“Well?” she prompted, after several seconds passed with no answer.

“Things,” he said around a mouthful of mushy cereal. “Correspondence. You’re dreadfully out of contact with the world governments, you know. They’ve been running completely amok.”

“As they should,” she retorted, settling against the counter and crossing her arms. “That’s how I run things here. I don’t expect you to understand.”

He shook his head, and spooned more cornflakes into his mouth. “Sure. Makes sense. It’s an absolute mess. But of course—” he grinned— “we’ll fix that.”

Anger flashed through her, but she shoved it down, forced herself to remain calm. “We won’t be fixing anything,” she said through gritted teeth. “Nothing is going to change here, Koschei. We’re going to keep running things the way I run things, and you’re going to sit down and be quiet about it. Or else…”

She trailed off, let the implied threat linger in the air. As she expected, he didn’t rise to the bait. He only tilted his head, and regarded her for a long moment.

Finally, he said, “who did you call?”

She made a noise of disbelief in her throat. “You really think I’m going to tell you that?”

“Hmmm.” He studied her for several seconds, something satisfied in his eyes. “Don’t suppose it was the High Council.”

Frustration, once again, flared white-hot in her chest. Her nails pressed into her arms, hard enough to leave marks later. “How did you know that?”

“Please.” He shoved another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, then let his spoon clatter to the counter and and leaned forward. “Any idiot could guess that would be the first thing you’d do. You can’t stand me, love.” He smiled. “Plus, you’re a little afraid of me, which is—” he chuckled, shook his head— “absolutely hilarious, if I’m being honest.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she shot back, but her thumping hearts belied the words. Vaguely, she wondered if he was right. Was she afraid of him? Her throat was dry, her hearts racing. But it wasn’t herself she was scared for. It was the people around her, people she barely knew, and yet people who were the only connections she had tethering her to the world. When she thought of them, her heart rates picked up and her stomach lurched with fear.

She wasn’t afraid of the Master. She was afraid of what she couldn’t control, and his name was plastered across the top of that list.

Not that it mattered—the Master didn’t believe her. He raised an eyebrow and gave her a cool look, then shrugged and picked up his spoon again. “Justify however you’d like. I don’t care. I have business to get done, and I don’t want you in my way.”

“Nor you in mine,” she retorted, but her words lacked conviction and her hearts were sinking as she said it. Because it wouldn’t work like that, she realized. It couldn’t. Whatever the Master was up to, she had to be in his way, because she had to stop him. It was all she could do. It was all she owed to the humans she had under her protection, whether they wanted her around or not.

She was still president of Earth, even if she did nothing with it. Perhaps it was high time that she step up to the plate.

The Master didn’t rise to her retort. He tilted his chin in acknowledgment, then shoved another spoonful of soggy cereal into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. 

“Are you planning on attending the ceremonies?” he asked after a few moments. 

The question took her off guard. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged, and stuck his spoon into his bowl—now nothing more than a mess of milk and cereal pieces—and stirred. “You don’t seem to enjoy them.”

“I don’t have a choice,” she snapped, and dropped her hands, shoving them into her pockets. “Why do you care? They’re months away.”

“Maybe.” He paused the track of his spoon, then let it go. It immediately slid deep into the bowl and stayed there, half-submerged. “But they’re an important political period. Not just for Gallifrey, you know. For every quadrant. For the universe.”

“I know that.” She straightened, hands balling deep in her pockets. “You think I don’t notice how they parade me around the entire Citadel? I’ll bet I’ve made more speeches than any visiting representative.”

“That’s because you’re a hero, _Theta_.” He tilted his chin, his lip curling on the word ‘hero’. “The High Council’s prime propagandist. Without you, the celebrations would be the driest bit of entertainment in the universe.” He snorted. “Amazing they’ve managed to wring this much out of you.”

The Doctor balked, fingers curling into the fabric of her pajamas until she felt the telltale rip of a seam. Something about the way he talked struck her deep in the gut, right where it counted. As if she were no more than a burnished trophy, taken out and polished every few years and otherwise left to rot. 

Of course, maybe it hurt because it was true, in at least one way. The Doctor had resigned herself to rot in a corner of the universe by choice. It was the Time Lords who dragged her out, dressed her up, and paraded her around when they deemed her useful. She hated it, but it was the deal she had made, all those years ago.

But then, that deal had already been turned on its head with the arrival of the Master. At this point, who knew what they were holding her to?

The thought ought to have given her some relief. Instead, it made her anxious. The idea that the Time Lords had deemed her single tenuous string of control irrelevant meant that she was stuck in their playground now, building sandcastles they could easily knock over. The bullies, and she the smallest child. No power. No control, not even the illusion of it.

Fear pitted her stomach.

“Why are you bringing this up?” she asked, suddenly desperate to drag her thoughts out of the narrow tracks they were hurtling down. “What does it have to do with either of us?”

The Master didn’t immediately answer. He watched her, fingers pressed against the counter, for a long moment, then let out a short breath and straightened.

“It has has much to do with either of us as you want it to,” he said. When she only stared at him in confusion, he opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. Then, he dropped his chin and let out a sigh.

“We can discuss it later,” he said after a long moment, then straightened and, without another word, brushed by her. She spun around, a retort, or maybe a question, on her lips, but he was gone before she got the chance to say it. She was only left to stare at the empty doorway, head spinning in confusion. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo whaddup im BACK
> 
> literally half of this fic is just shenanigans but i promise there is plot coming
> 
> also thank yall for the comments etc they really make my day

The rest of the day passed in tense, anxious silence. The Doctor flitted from room to room occasionally, but stayed mainly in her own, torn between fear and suspicion. She wanted to stalk right up to him and demand his plans, through violence if necessary, but knew that such a confrontation would only lend to his victory. He had a way of riling her up, and she to him as well, but he was better at using it. Anger was the Master’s bread and butter; he delighted in it, while she floundered in frustration, unable to channel it into productivity. 

So she left him alone, and hated herself for it, but made no move to leave her room until the evening. Only then did she slip into the kitchen, still in her pajamas, to snag a ginger beer from the fridge. Her habits, she decided stubbornly, unhealthy or no, would not be changed just because the Master had arrived. 

The Master wasn’t in the kitchen when she arrived, nor did she hear his footsteps echoing in the hallway, so she didn’t retreat immediately to her room. Instead she propped herself upon a stool by the counter and popped open the can, then took a long swig, determined to spend at least a few minutes in the open. She hated being chased throughout her house as if it weren’t her own, and she hated drinking in her room. She was always alone when she drank, Yaz’s visit notwithstanding, but sitting alone in her room carried a pathetic air, and she wasn’t in the mood to deal with the feeling. Not when she already felt like a coward in her own house.

She ran through two ginger beers quickly, and by the time she reached the third, had settled into a muddy sort of relaxation. Her anxiety peeled away, or at least stayed huddled at the back of her mind, and so it was with a stubborn sort of resolve that she didn’t even move when she heard the telltale footsteps of the Master in the hallway.

They paused in the doorway, and stayed there for several long seconds.

Then: “Is this what you do every evening?”

His voice rang with disbelief, but she didn’t rise to his bait. She only snorted and turned around, somewhat unsteady on her stool.

“Why?” she drawled, words slipping and sliding from her mouth. “Does it bother you?”

He only raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over her still-unchanged pajamas, her disheveled hair. Though he had been wearing a neatly pressed waistcoat ensemble that morning, he’d finally exchanged it for something resembling sleepwear. Silken pajamas, his initials etched above the pocket. It was all so entirely ridiculous that she couldn’t suppress a snort.

“You look—” she shook her head, chin bobbing— “like an idiot.”

A crease appeared in his brow. “And you look like a fool.”

The Doctor rolled her shoulders, the movement loose and over-exaggerated. “I always look like a fool. King of fools, me. The funny part is—” she hiccuped— “you try so hard to look cool, and you just look pompous.”

“Maybe I just like a little comfort.” He stepped forward, casting a critical look towards the can of ginger beer she clutched in her hand. “Not that you don’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t be in this house, swimming in ginger beer.”

She frowned, certain he was insulting her. “They gave this house to me. I didn’t want it.”

“But you took it anyway.” He reached the counter and settled against it, elbow splayed across the surface. She watched him, frown deepening at the close proximity. She wasn’t sure she wanted him so close. “You could have refused.”

“I did.” She snorted, and reached for her ginger beer, took another long draft and set it down again. “And they basically told me to shut up. So I gave in.” She raised one flippant hand in the air, and gestured vaguely. “Besides, what do I care? It’s not my job to run the Earth. Let the humans figure it out for themselves.”

_Not that they could stand to look at me_ , she thought bitterly, but didn’t let it slip past her tongue. The Master didn’t immediately reply, but studied her for a long moment, inscrutable.

“You really leave them to their own devices,” he said softly after a second, and shook his head. “It’s absolutely insane. You have the power to—”

He paused, still shaking his head. “I don’t even know. I don’t understand you, Doctor. All this, just to spite me?”

“What?” she drew back, surprise sending the hand with the ginger beer skittering across the table. “What do you mean?”

He scoffed then, and shifted, fingers pressing against the counter top. “Don’t play dumb, love. It doesn’t suit you. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Then say it,” the Doctor retorted, even though she knew he didn’t need to. The spiteful, panicky action she had taken seventy years ago had been just that—but she wasn’t about to admit it. Not when he would never understand why she had done it in the first place.

The two of them, fighting for control. Only what the Master didn’t understand was that, while he worked for control over her, she only wanted control over herself. She couldn’t care one whit about his actions, his future, or the things he worked for. She only wanted her own life to hold in her fingers.

Sometimes, she thought he wanted her to care more than anything. To fight back, grab his life by the roots and drag it into shape, if only because he kept trying to do the same to her.

The Master cocked his head, and looked at her with a long, steady gaze. The knowledge of it hung in the air between them, edged with obstinacy. She already knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“No.”

The moment passed. She dropped her chin, feeling, inexplicably, a wave of disappointment wash through her. Perhaps it would have been better that way, to have it all out between them, even if the insult was decades past. It lingered between them like a thunderhead, building and building but never quite breaking. 

She hated that. But if he was going to refuse, then she wasn’t about to be the one to bring it up.

“Fine.” She scoffed, and turned back to her beer, by now mostly empty. All of a sudden, the thought of drinking it seemed hollow and pointless. What was she doing, anyway? Drinking herself into a stupor to dodge the nightmares that would surely come anyway. Drinking to avoid talking to the Master, except here he was anyway. 

Abrupt emptiness washed through her, and without thinking, she stood, sending her stool screeching over the hardwood floors.

“I’m going to bed,” she declared, and thought about emptying the rest of her ginger beer, then decided against it. Instead she left it there, a problem to be dealt with in the morning. “You can—I dunno. Not bother me.”

He stood as she did, straightening from his pose against the counter, but he only watched as she sidestepped him, critical gaze moving over her unsteady form.

“Need some help, love?” he called once she made it to the doorway, hand out to steady.

“No,” she snapped back, and expected a laugh, but instead only heard a sigh. She didn’t look back to see it. Instead, she groped her way through the doorway and stumbled to her room, leaving the Master, and all the past that he held, behind her.

————

She didn’t plan to sleep—only to close her eyes. But the moment her head hit the pillow, her consciousness, urged on by three drinks and a conversation she wanted to forget, slipped away as easy as a tide sliding out to sea.

She fell into darkness, and immediately, into a nightmare.

In this one, she stood before the Nightmare Child, only she was alone—no ship, no army behind her. She stood impossibly in a space that didn’t exist, the bodiless nature of the Nightmare Child stretching around her, inexplicably alive, though unable to be discerned, and though she trembled, she didn’t run. She couldn’t. She knew, in the way that one intimately knows things in a dream, that she had a job to do.

Herself, standing before the Nightmare Child, and it was hers to control.

It had never been like this in the war. In the war, the Nightmare Child, born of fire and rage and a thousand twisted timelines, came into being and proceeded to eat up entire swathes of time and space, unable to be stopped until they finally did. In the war, nobody controlled the Nightmare Child, and the Doctor, when she had ever had the misfortune to confront it, had run, swallowed screams never making it past her lips.

But now, it was all hers.

She didn’t want to do it. She fought against it, panic rising and limbs heavy, but the nature of the dream forced her, as the Nightmare Child lashed and raged before her eyes.

“No,” she whispered, voiceless words rising, “no, no, no, no—!”

But it didn’t help. The Nightmare Child rose from its slumber, and she, directing it against her own will, pointed and watched, helpless, as it set to work.

Under her command, picking and chewing at its food with the greedy pleasure of a toddler, the Nightmare Child began to pick apart the universe.

“No!” she cried, falling to her knees, though there was no ground beneath to catch her, “please, stop!”

But the universe was ripping apart before her eyes, the screams of billions shattering her eardrums, pain not her own tearing her body apart but she couldn’t move, she couldn’t even stop it. The Nightmare Child, set loose by her own hands, was no longer under her control, and she could only watch, frozen in horror, as it did all that she had done by herself, all those years ago.

“Stop!” she cried out uselessly, “STOP!”

“Wake up, damn it!” 

Rough hands shook her and she lashed out without thinking, only to be greeted by a grunt of pain.

“For Rassilon’s—!” A palm connected hard with her shoulder, shoving her away, and she lurched from the touch on instinct, scrambling against the backboard.

“Who—” she blinked, hearts pounding, head swimming with panicky confusion. It took a second for her eyes to adjust; then she caught the disgruntled face of the Master, caught in the light of the open door, as he nursed a growing bruise on his jaw. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He shot her a glare, still rubbing his jaw. “Waking you up,” he growled. “Since I can’t bloody sleep with all the shouting.”

She stared at him, the panic in her hearts slowly subsiding. “You—” He was in her room, she realized with a lurch of dread, sitting on her bed— “Get the hell out of my room!”

His eyes narrowed, but he made no move to stand. “So that’s the thanks I get?”

“You don’t get anything,” she shot back, hearts slowly picking up speed again. Pulled out of a nightmare from the very person she couldn’t stand—her night was tumbling towards insanity. “Except _out_ of my room. And don’t wake me up again, ever. I don’t care if it bothers you. I don’t want to see your face.”

She hissed the words with such animosity that his eyes widened momentarily before narrowing again, his lip twisting into a sneer.

“Fine,” he snarled, and rose without another word, bed creaking. Relief poured through her hearts at the movement, but she refused to let it show on her face. “If that’s what you want. I’ll have to invest in a good set of ear plugs.”

“Do it,” she replied, and watched him as he turned and started towards the door, shoulders hunched and fists curled.

She expected him to leave at once. But he paused in the doorway, hand on the doorknob, and didn’t turn around. “What was your nightmare about?”

“Get OUT!” She reached for her bedside table, found a hairbrush she had neglected to use, and raised it, but it was too late. He was already gone, chuckling as he ducked into the hallway, leaving the door to slowly swing shut behind him. 

The moment the door clicked shut, she flopped back on her pillows with a huff, and waited for sleep to reclaim her again, but it didn’t happen. Her clock read 5:27, and light was slowly starting to creep in through her closed blinds, filling up the room.

No more sleep. After thirty minutes of effort, she gave up and rolled onto her side with a groan. Technically, it was early enough to get up, but she didn’t want to. To face another day meant to face him again, and she’d already had plenty of his presence. Besides which, she needed to work out some kind of strategy that didn’t involve sneaking around her own house as if she didn’t belong. The day before had been humiliating enough. She couldn’t go through it again.

With a sigh, the Doctor heaved herself up, and then out of bed, grimacing as her skull thudded dully with the movement. She wasn’t in the mood for a hangover—she wasn’t in the mood for anything—but lately, a lot of things had been happening with little regard to her mood. It seemed she was just going to have to work around it.

“Nice,” she muttered, and reached for the hairbrush she had discarded earlier, yanking it through her hair. Part of her didn’t want to make an effort, if only because the Master made too much of one, but hair was annoying, and it already nearly touched her shoulders. Let it go any longer, and she’d have to chop it all off.

Ten minutes later, having stumbled into proper clothes, she made her way to the kitchen, gritting her teeth against the urge to stay in her room. The Master was nowhere to be found, but she kept an eye out anyway as she rummaged for the orange juice in the fridge.

Only to be interrupted by the ring of her phone, still lying on the counter from the night before.

The Doctor paused, halfway through unscrewing the cap off the orange juice carton, and turned towards the phone. It rang again, vibrating noisily across the counter, until she leaned over and snatched it up.

Grace’s caller ID lit across the screen.

For a moment, the Doctor only stared, confusion sinking through her. Why would Grace be calling her? Her visit with Dr. Benton—which she would have to cancel anyway—was a near month off, and she rarely came to visit outside of it. What could she possibly need to contact the Doctor for?

Unless she simply wanted to say hello. Impossible to rule out, in light of recent proceedings.

Another ring jolted the Doctor out of her reverie, and on instinct, she reached out, swiped open the call and held it up to her ear.

“Hello?” 

“Doctor—” Grace’s voice came over the line, surprisingly apologetic. “I’m sorry for calling you so early, love—”

In truth, the Doctor had forgotten the time. She glanced over to the clock on the stove, and saw 6:22 flashing in green numbers.

“It’s no trouble,” she replied, and heard a sigh of relief on the other end.

“Oh, that’s good then. It’s only because I was about to head out to work, and wanted to catch you before then. Actually, I didn’t think I’d catch you at all.” She paused, confused, and that was when the Doctor remembered that she wasn’t often up at this hour. No—she was never up at this hour.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she half-lied, and before Grace could ask any more questions, plunged into one of her own. “What’s your trouble, Grace?”

“I just wanted to call about those parts you said you’d pick up.” She hesitated, as if uncertain whether to continue. “Of course, love, if you’ve changed your mind, I’m sure we can—”

“No, no,” the Doctor interrupted, hand groping to find the counter behind her. She leaned back against it, then glanced to the doorway. “No, it’s completely fine. It’s my fault—something, er, happened, and it slipped my mind. But I can pick them up and bring them over today. Would that work?”

“Perfectly,” Grace replied, relief seeping through her tone. “Only if you’re—”

“I’m sure,” the Doctor confirmed with another glance to the doorway. No Master—not even footsteps. “I’ll be over as soon as I can. Will the others be at home?”

“Yes, Graham is retired and Ryan’s still searching for work, so unless he goes job hunting—”

“Tell him to stay home,” the Doctor said, then backtracked. “Er, if he wants. I could help him put those parts in. Make sure the car’s running how it should.”

And stay out of the house as long as possible. She didn’t mention this, nor did she allow it to take up too much presence in her mind. It was an escape route, not a permanent solution, but—well, that she’d have to work on. 

For now, she just had to get away, before the situation swallowed her whole.

“Let them know I’ll be over,” she said, then hesitated. “And Grace—?”

“Yes?” Grace’s voice came, confused.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. Over the line, puzzled silence followed. Then, a laugh.

“We should be thanking you,” Grace said, only to add briskly, “and none of that nonsense. You’re doing us a favor. And of course, you know you can come by as much as you like. Favor or no.”

“Really?” The Doctor perked up, fingers tightening around the phone. “I—thank you. Really.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” Grace said. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“Work. Ah, right.” Quickly, the Doctor straightened, then cast another glance to the doorway. “Yes, okay. I’ll be there soon. Have fun.”

“Tall order,” Grace said, but her voice lilted with humor. The Doctor responded absentmindedly as she said her goodbye and hung up, then set the phone back on the counter. There still was no sign of the Master about, but he could appear at any moment. 

Which meant that she had to be long gone. And now, at least, she had a place to go to.

Maybe this whole friend business had more benefits than she thought.


	17. Chapter 17

She slid out of the cab—a different cab, a different cabbie, this one more frightened than the last—and slipped an indeterminate sum of money into his hand before approaching the front steps. 

The door opened before she even had time to knock. She paused, her hand raised, then lowered it slowly and shifted the bag of parts from one hand to the other.

“Hiya, Graham.”

“Nice to see you, cockle.” He gave a twinkling grin and stepped back, opening the door wide to allow her through. She opened her mouth, in half a mind to object to the pet name, then decided it didn’t matter and simply nodded. The parts clanked as she stepped inside, and Graham glanced to them.

“Ryan’s in the garage,” he said in answer to her unasked question. “You go down and get those to him, then call him up for tea. The lad’s been looking at that thing for far too long.”

The Doctor blinked in surprise at the no-nonsense in his tone. She wasn’t used to being ordered around. Well, the High Council was one thing. Humans were another. 

“I—”

But the kettle was singing and Graham was already turning back to the kitchen, so her retort died on her tongue. Instead, she watched in slight astonishment as he retreated to the kitchen, then turned down the hallway, where she knew the garage to be.

When she arrived, it was to find Ryan’s feet sticking out from under the car, his white trainers stained gray with dust. She made a reasonable guess that the rest of him might be under there too, and tossed out a greeting.

“Hiya, Ryan.”

“Doctor?” Ryan’s voice came muffled, but his feet shifted, and a moment later he pushed himself out from under the car, to reveal a face smudge with grease. His eyes went to the bag in her hand, and a grin split his face. “Are those—?”

“Yep.” She raised the bag, bulging with the items he needed, then dropped it by the door. “But we’ll have to do it later. Graham’s calling us for tea.”

Immediately, his smile disappeared into a frown. “But—”

“Ryan! Doctor!” Graham’s voice, brooking no argument, called from within the house. “Tea’s ready!”

To her utter surprise, a smile weaved its way across her face. “Well, suppose that’s us told.”

Ryan scowled, but didn’t argue. He only grumbled slightly as he pushed himself to his feet, and cast a longing eye at the bag of parts as he passed, before following the Doctor into the house.

Graham was waiting, three cups of tea already set upon the table. A jar of sugar stood in the middle, and the Doctor reached for it thankfully, ignoring Ryan’s face as she dumped half a dozen spoonfuls into her tea.

“You like sugar, huh?” he observed as he settled into his own seat and reached for a mug.

“Best thing there is,” she replied, before plopping into the seat opposite and pulling her tea towards her. “Besides orange juice. Best drink you lot have ever invented, if I’m being honest.”

“By you lot, you mean humans,” Graham said as he seated himself behind Ryan, who cast him a slightly disgruntled look. The Doctor caught it, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she busied herself in her tea.

“Sure do,” she said, raising her mug to her lips. Steam tickled her nose, and she wrinkled her nose. “Er, not that there’s anything wrong with you lot. Or saying that. I didn’t mean—”

“We got you the first time,” Ryan cut in, and she sagged, relieved.

“Well,” she continued, unsure of how to proceed, “it’s an excellent invention, orange juice. All your flavored drinks are, really. I mean, grape soda? Who would have thought to take a flavor and make it into a liquid? You’d be surprised how many societies stick to their equivalent of water.”

She was babbling, mainly because she didn’t know how to fill the silence. Silence by herself was one thing—she babbled in her head, and bothered nobody. Silence with others was unnerving—she couldn’t help but feel that she needed to fill it.

“Is that true?” Graham asked, looking vaguely amused, and at least slightly interested. “That people don’t like flavored things on other planets?”

Encouraged, the Doctor sat up straighter. “Well, not all planets. Plenty like yours out there, Graham. Still, humans are on the more creative side, especially with food. And there’s plenty of uncreative types out there, who never bother to think past water.” She wrinkled her nose. “I used to never—”

And then she stopped short, so suddenly that Graham leaned forward, as if waiting for the next word. She didn’t give it to him. She only sat there, frozen in the sort of memory she’d long tried to forget, then slowly leaned back in her chair, fingers slipping from her mug.

She used to never take her friends to the boring planets. Only the interesting ones, unless they wanted to do something exceptionally boring, and then she complained the whole way, because that was her right.

She didn’t take her friends anywhere anymore, because the universe was a different place, and she was stuck here, no friends and no agency over her own life, only a title she didn’t want and an enemy who was busy overstaying his welcome.

The world was different, but for a moment, only a moment, she thought about how it might feel to show Ryan, Graham, Yaz and Grace the universe, and her chest ached with the feel of it. 

“You alright, Doc?” Graham’s worried tones pierced her thoughts. “Only you just went quiet for a mo’.” 

“Huh?” She glanced to him, then gave a slight shake of her head, jerking herself back to reality. “Oh—I’m fine. Brilliant, actually.” She reached forward and wrapped her hands once more around her mug, clinging to some semblance of normalcy. Tagging herself to this world, so as not to lose herself in memories. “This is excellent tea, Graham. What’s your recipe?”

“Oh, don’t ask him that!” Ryan leaned back in his chair with an enormous roll of his eyes. “Please, don’t open that conversation topic.”

“Oi, she asked!” Graham protested, but Ryan just shook his head.

“Tea doesn’t have a recipe,” he argued, “and you don’t even add anything special. You just steep it longer and call it strong.”

“Yeah, and don’t forget I buy that tea special! There’s a shop down by—”

They kept arguing, having seemingly forgotten the Doctor, but she didn’t particularly mind. In fact, she realized as she leaned back in her chair, mug clasped in her hands, the need to nervously fill the silence faded too, leaving behind nothing more than simple relief. Relief, and a feeling so foreign it took her a moment to put a name to it.

Contentment. That was the word. It spread through her chest and warmed like an ember, and she reveled in it. Even if outside, her life was falling apart in slow motion, and she was only temporarily escaping her problems.

For now, just for a moment, she felt like she was home.

——————

“Okay, hand me that.”

The Doctor handed Ryan the part, and watched approvingly as he got to work with a skill that belied his age. Despite his Dyspraxia, he had explained in the hours they’d been in the garage, he worked hard to do the things he was able to do, which was why that, even at the age of nineteen, where many others had given up, he was still determined to learn how to ride a bike.

“That’s something admirable, you know,” she’d told him, and watched him flush with pride. In that moment, she knew that she wasn’t going to be putting the car back together. She was going to let Ryan do it, and serve as nothing more than a second pair of hands.

Which was what she was doing now—and to his credit, it was working quite well. In only a few minutes, they’d be able to start up the car and see how it was running, should it work—and judging by the way Ryan had fixed it, she was confident that it would.

“Doctor?” Graham’s voice, distant but still loud, echoed from inside the house. They looked up as one, then the Doctor frowned and pushed herself out from under the car.

“Graham?” she called back. For a moment, there came no reply. Then—

“Your friend’s here for you!”

The Doctor’s hearts froze. For several impossibly long seconds, she didn’t move.

“Doctor?” Ryan pushed himself out from under the car as well, and shot her an odd look. “Are you okay?”

Her lips barely moved. “I’m fine.” Without waiting for his reply, she pushed herself numbly to her feet, and turned towards the door. Her hearts were pounding a racket in her chest.

“Doctor?” Ryan heaved himself to his feet as well, concern seeping into his tone. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, forcing some kind of conviction into it. It didn’t sound at all convincing. “Just—my friend coming to pick me up. Forgot he was going to do that.”

All wrong, it was coming out all wrong. The ground was crumbling beneath her feet, the sense of contentment that had lingered after the tea put out as easily as a candle flame. She couldn’t even force herself to act normally as she moved through the door, up the stairs, down the hallway. She swung around a corner, into the living room, and stopped so suddenly Ryan nearly crashed into her.

At the table, the Master smiled up at her, a cup of tea balanced in both hands. “Hello, Doctor,” he practically purred. “’Bout time you came up.”

The Doctor sucked in a breath. Fury blazed up in her, so hot she was momentarily blinded for it. It flashed before her eyes, ran white-hot up her throat, and took all her might not to let it out.

She didn’t it out. She let out the breath she’d been holding in one rush, then cranked a mechanical smile onto her face.

_Be calm_ , she ordered herself, though she felt anything but. _Be calm_.

“Koschei.” She refused to use the moniker he went by in front of her friends. “Why did you come so early?”

His smile dropped slightly at her address of him, but not enough to really slip. Instead, his upper lip twitched, his smile turning mean. “Missed you at home. Well, work missed you at home. Lots to catch up on, love.”

Distantly, though she wasn’t looking at them, she could feel Ryan and Graham exchanging looks with each other. She ignored them, if only because she couldn’t let on. Instead, she clung to the hope that she could carry things out as normal, if by sheer determination alone.

“I know that,” she retorted, and knew immediately she wasn’t doing well in the ‘staying calm’ department. “But I had business here too. I could come back later, you know. Not really a deadline to these things.”

Something flared in his eyes. He tilted his head and wrinkled his nose, playing at consideration. “Ooh, I mean—true. But we don’t want to push things off. Could make some world governments angry.”

It was at this moment, the worst possible moment, that Graham stepped into the conversation. He held his hands up as if he didn’t want to interfere, but politeness inclined him. “Er, not to interrupt the talk about world governments, but you’re welcome to finish your tea first, son.”

“No he isn’t,” the Doctor bit off, and internally winced, but didn’t tear her eyes from the Master. He was watching her, a grin still playing at his face. Egging her on. “Sorry, Graham. I think he’s right. We really need to get back.”

Get back, before the Master did something funny. Get back, before she put her friends in any more danger. Her throat was dry, her breath catching jagged with each heave of her lungs. Familiar nausea churned in her stomach.

She had to get out of here.

The Master looked at her for a long moment. Then, he dipped his head. “You’re probably right.” He stood, pushing his tea across the tabletop. A few drops sloshed over the side, and the Doctor watched them, feeling as if she were stuck in a tunnel. Her whole world had narrowed, the walls around her enclosing.

“Bye, Ryan and Graham,” she said in as a pleasant a voice as she could muster. “It was nice seeing you.”

“And you, cockle.” Graham cast her a smile, but she couldn’t miss the hint of worry behind it. Her hearts sank.

She’d forgotten how humans could worry. Could worry, and could meddle if they thought it necessary. She always seemed to draw the type with good hearts, who got into more trouble than they were worth. Once, she would have delighted to find such a quality. Now, with her mortal enemy standing on the other side of the room, she only felt terrified.

“Time to go, Doctor.” The Master cast her a smile as he moved past, snagging his coat from the coat rack and tossing it over his shoulders. “Excellent tea, by the way! I’ll have to be back for another cup.”

“Anytime!” Graham called as they disappeared into the hallway. The Doctor waited until both Ryan and Graham were out of sight to deliver a sharp jab to the Master’s side.

“You won’t be coming back here,” she whispered, all the fury bubbling immediately to the surface. “Ever.”

“Now, love.” The Master only winced at the jab, but otherwise didn’t look at her. His jaw was tight, his gaze focused on the street as they stepped onto the porch. “Wouldn’t want to lose that temper of yours.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but too many flew to her lips, all of them entirely inappropriate for the setting. One word too loud, and she knew that Graham and Ryan would catch their argument—something she couldn’t bear, not when the rest of the day had gone so well.

She’d only had these friends for a couple of days. The thought of losing them—

The Master was already making his way down the steps, so she huffed and went after him, voiceless fury churning in her gut. She didn’t comment on the sleek black car that waited on the curb, nor did she greet the chauffeur who cast them both a strange look before pulling out into the road.

She didn’t speak the whole way back. Words rose to her tongue, but the presence of the chauffeur stemmed any tirade she might have given. Instead she seethed, boiling in a frustrated rage, until they at last pulled up to her home. Once there, she didn’t wait for the chauffeur to get out and open her door, as the Master did, but climbed out by herself, slamming the door behind her so hard it echoed. 

From behind, she heard the Master chuckle. “Don’t mind her.” His words floated to her ears. “She just gets in a temper.”

Humiliation after humiliation. Fear and worry for her friends bubbled uselessly inside of her, and her hands curled into fists. She didn’t wait for the Master to follow, but strode to the front door, opened it, and slammed that behind her as well.

The Master followed a moment later, stepping delicately inside and closing the door behind him. She could feel the good humor rolling off of him, as if he had just told a very good joke and expected him to be laughing with her.

The moment the door clicked shut, she whirled around.

“YOU—!” She lunged for him, caught him just as he turned and pinned him so hard against the door all the wind rushed out of his lungs with a grunt. She caught the impact as the doorknob rammed into his back, and couldn’t help a surge of satisfaction. “I told you to stay away from my friends!”

He winced, face screwing up in pain, and forced the next words out. Despite the expression he wore, his tone still lilted with mirth, which only stoked her fury.

“Well, I mean, you _did_ abandon your presidential—oof!”

The ‘oof!’ was the result of a forcible shove against the door. This time, he responded by pushing her off, hard enough to send her stumbling back. She caught her balance several feet away and dove for him again, but he was ready this time and dodged her easily.

“Absolutely no need to get physical,” he quipped, stepping behind her. She whirled around, ready to go for him again, but he took a warning step back, hands held so that she new she wouldn’t get the jump on him again. With some difficulty, she forced herself to steady, swallowing the intense urge to hurt him the way he kept trying to hurt her. He liked mind games, and she refused to play them. Sure, she could outsmart him in a game of chess, but in this incarnation at the very least, she preferred to inflict hurt where it counted—with her hands, down and dirty.

Better with her own hands, she always thought, rather than anybody else’s. 

“I told you not to go near my friends,” she snarled, fury dripping in every word, “and I told you to leave me alone. Once you start listening, I’ll extend you the same courtesy.”

“So it’s going to come to blows every time I try to get you to do something?” His eyes flashed and he stepped forward, hands up in case she tried something. “Because if it is, we’re going to need to have a serious talk about the parameters of our relationship.”

“There’s no talk,” she spat, nails digging into her palms, “and no relationship. I made this very clear, right from the beginning. I don’t exist under your control, Koschei. So stop trying to make me.”

He took another step forward, anger of his own glimmering in his eyes. “You could at least call me by my name, Theta.”

“Never,” she hissed, starkly aware of the lack of space between them. He was nearly level with her in this incarnation, and she couldn’t help but wonder if that had been on purpose. He had always been better at controlling his regenerations than she. “Master is barely a name. There’s no honor to it. It’s just a sad goal you’ll never achieve.”

His lip twitched, the muscle in his jaw jumping. “You’re talking to the representative of the largest quadrant in the universe, Theta. Do you really think I control nothing?”

“You’re still under the High Council’s control,” she shot back, undeterred. “You work for them, no matter how much you want to pretend your status means something. Sorry, Koschei, but try as you might, you’ll never rule the universe. Have fun dreaming, though.”

She watched him for a moment, then turned around, lest she really send a fist flying into his face. Her hands were twitching, her hearts jumping, and all she could think of was _pain-humiliation-anger_ and how to take it out on him. Because it was he who had caused it, he who pushed the boundaries she set and sauntered about reeking of risk to life and limb. He knew that she regarded him as a danger, and exalted in it. For that, she hated him.

“You know nothing about me,” he growled to her back. She didn’t turn around. “You don’t even understand the universe you live in, Theta. You gave that up when you exiled yourself to this useless planet, and you haven’t even done anything with it.” He scoffed, the noise filled with disgust. “Sometimes, I really can’t believe you. You could have been the most powerful person in the galaxy, and instead, just to spite me, you turned into a worthless, scummy drunk, who can’t even sleep through the night because even after seventy years, she can’t reconcile the fact that she’s a murd—”

Her first reached his face before she had even fully turned around. It slammed into his nose, so hard she heard the snap and pop of cartilage, and his chin jolted back, orange-ish red droplets of blood spraying through the air. 

She watched him stagger, chest heaving, knuckles aching, and thought that the moment he straightened, she was going to do it again.

He didn’t straighten. He bent over, dripping blood onto the carpet, then looked up and shot her a glare, eyes glowing with fury. 

“Try that again,” he hissed, and she only scoffed.

“Want me to?” 

His teeth bared, and then, before she even had time to react, he straightened and lunged for her. This time it was she being slammed against the door, doorknob digging into her back, but she took it by the grit of her teeth, even as pain burst through her lumbar region. 

“Don’t hit me,” he said, so close the scruff of his beard brushed her cheek, “and don’t push me again. Or I’ll gladly return the favor.”

She only smiled at him, full of teeth and void of mirth. “Like you’ve ever done anything by your own hands—”

His shoe slammed down hard on her toes, drawing tears of pain from her eyes. She squeezed them shut, the breath rushing out of her, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. Before her, she felt, rather than heard, the breath of his laughter touch her cheek. Then he pulled away, leaving her to sag against the door. 

“Come to me when you actually want to fix this planet of yours,” he said. She didn’t open her eyes, nor acknowledge him in any way. “Otherwise, I’ve got work to do.”

With that he turned, and she listened to his footsteps recede into the distance. When she finally opened her eyes, he was gone, but the blood that stained the carpet left a lingering trail. She stared at it, and for no reason at all, felt more tears come to her eyes.

She swallowed them hard, and straightened. No use, she decided, in crying. Not for someone who wasn’t worth crying over.

She couldn’t tell if she was talking about the Master, or herself. 


	18. Chapter 18

Despite the Master’s offer, she didn’t come to him for help governing. Instead, she moped about the house, lonely now that Marie was gone, and busied herself with hatching plans to upset whatever plans he might be building himself. It was hard work, considering that she didn’t actually know what he actually planned to do, so she ran through hundreds of possibilities, and made contingencies for all of them.

It was only after several days did she have to step back and concede that none of them were happening.

The Master made no move to take over the world. He did hold several teleconferences with world leaders, grumbling about the lack of telepathic communication, but he didn’t object when the Doctor hacked in, though she knew he must have detected her, and they didn’t talk about anything interesting. They talked about regional conflicts and nuclear disarmament and the amount of poverty across the globe, but nothing that the Master might have used to strengthen his hold on Earth. 

Not that it would have mattered, because the world governments were as good as defenseless should the Master actually move to take over. He was already the de facto ruler along with the Doctor—in fact, the only thing that stood in his way was the Doctor. If any power struggle would play out, it would play out between him and her only, with the rest of Earth as collateral.

But even so, the Master did not gather the world’s weapons. He did not mobilize armies, nor did he trick governments into decimating one tenth of their population. He only talked a little, and listened a lot, and when the time came to sign off, he gave no orders except for business to continue as regular.

It was all exceedingly suspicious.

Days passed, and nothing happened. They avoided each other after the fight, though the Doctor, when she occasionally caught him in the hallway, couldn’t help but take pleasure in noticing that his nose was thoroughly broken, the flesh around it swollen and purple. For her part, though she rarely changed out of pajamas, she made a point to wear socks, lest he catch the green and purple bruise that spread across the entirety of her foot.

In the meantime, she went about her business; watching him during the day, and drinking in the evenings, forcing herself to forget, if only for a few hours, the fear and anxiety that gnawed constantly at her stomach. Ginger beer didn’t always settle her stomach, but it settled her thoughts, and allowed her to slip, for the most part, into a dreamless sleep.

For the most part.

On several nights, she woke up sweating, her blankets twisted around her, mind cycling through a terrified haze of old nightmares. She didn’t scream—or at least she didn’t think she did—but she did wake several times with tears staining her cheeks and a lump in her throat.

Five nights after she punched the Master in the face, she woke once more to a nightmare, and this time she was screaming.

Or at least, she thought she was screaming. She awoke suddenly, hearts slamming in her throat and the ghost of a touch on her shoulder, and twisted into a sitting position, blankets tangling around her chest.

She’d been screaming. She knew she’d been screaming. She had been in her dream, and even now, gasping for breath, she could feel the rawness in her throat. She stared at the outlines of her closet and chest of drawers, thrown into sharp illumination by the cracked door, and raised a hand to rub at her shoulder, though she didn’t know why.

The door was cracked, only she was certain she had closed it. And the hallway light was on, though her clock said it was a quarter past one in the morning. Her shoulder burned through her pajamas, even with the cool touch of her own fingers upon it.

If he woke her, she thought, dredging up fury she didn’t really feel, she would break his fingers the way she broke his nose. 

But she had no proof that he wouldn’t deny, and it was the middle of the night, so she didn’t pursue. Instead, she sat there for several long minutes, forcing her breathing to calm, then slowly lowered herself back to her pillows, and tried to doze off.

It took her a while. Thoughts crowded her mind, dark memories that clawed at her chest with the vividness of yesterday, and though she lay curled in her bed, her blankets pulled to her chest, she couldn’t help but feel awfully small.

The space of her room was enormous, and therefore claustrophobic. The emptiness of her bed ached, and for just a fleeting moment, though she hated herself for it, she wondered how it would feel for somebody to fill it.

She didn’t sleep much more that night.

—————

By the time the sun rose, the Doctor felt like an utter log. She rose with it grumpily, and, for lack of anything better to do, headed for the kitchen. At least there, some coffee might push away the haze of exhaustion that clouded her thoughts.

Only to find the Master seated at the counter, one finger flicking through a holographic display as he used his other hand to spoon cornflakes into his mouth.

The Doctor stopped in the doorway, and briefly debated the merits of picking a fight. However, before she could find a suitable offense to launch into, the Master glanced up, then paused, finger poised above the display.

“You look awful,” he said coolly. His eyes dropped back to the display, and he began to swipe through again, with the kind of boredom that suggested he’d read all the articles already. Through the back of the holographic screen, the Doctor caught the backwards march of the headlines.

_Gallifreyan forces respond to uprising in quadrant 5JX—_

_Discontent spreads as protesters call for judicial reform of representative system—_

_Ship captain arrested for ferrying supplies—_

“Is this really your thing?” she asked as he flicked through yet another headline. “Reading the news at breakfast?”

He shrugged, and didn’t look up from the display. “Helps to keep informed. Not that you would understand, since you do absolutely nothing.”

The Doctor stared at him, familiar irritation flickering in her chest. It was all entirely suspicious, she thought, just how much he leaned into the role of representative. He played the part perfectly, right down to the combed hair and pressed purple suits, one of which he was wearing now, though it couldn’t be far past six in the morning. In contrast, the Doctor hadn’t bothered to throw trousers on over her boxers, nor had she changed out of the shirt she’d worn the day before. 

And he was insulting her again. Then, that was par for the course.

“I do keep informed,” she lied, and, because she wasn’t about to retreat, moved to the cupboard to find her own cereal. Once, before the Master’s arrival, staff had delivered all her food thrice a day, though she rarely touched it and kept her own cupboard stocked besides. Now, however, she was forced to rely on her own groceries. Which would probably mean more visits to Sheffield. She grimaced at the thought.

Grace, Ryan, Graham and Yaz were the exception. Should she mingle among the humans, for the most part she was met with dread and fear, and sometimes, if she was lucky, a horrified sort of awe. 

She pulled something bright and sugary from the cupboard, then grabbed a bowl and the proper utensils, and set to work. She wasn’t aware of the Master watching her until she glanced up, midway through pouring the milk, and caught his studious gaze.

“What?” she asked, defensiveness immediately rising up in her, though she couldn’t think why. She was used to the barbs and criticism, though that didn’t mean she particularly wanted to hear them. “Something on my face?”

“No,” the Master said, but he dropped his gaze back to the holographic display, and didn’t speak until she settled on a stool by the counter, several places down from his own.

“You know, I don’t bite.”

She snorted around a mouthful of cereal. “That’s a lie. Besides, it’s not me I’m worried about. It’s your face.”

His fingers, pressed flat upon the table, flexed as if he were trying very hard not to curl them into fists. His nose, she noticed, though no longer crooked—he was definitely the type to use up a spare bit of regeneration energy to fix that—still sported a fading bruise. 

So did her foot, but her fuzzy socks hid any sign that might give him the satisfaction. 

“Are you really going to threaten me with violence every time we share the same room?” he asked after a long moment. She nearly scoffed in disbelief, if only on instinct, only to realize a beat later that the question was a serious one.

“Are you really asking me that?” she shot back instead, and watched his brow crinkle before he glanced up at her questioningly. 

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you’ve been trying to kill me for centuries,” she told him, disbelief, and—yes, anger, there it was—creeping into her tone. “Do you know how many times I’ve bothered with you? None, until you get in my way. If I could choose, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.” Her face twisted into a scowl. “But you just keep insisting on ruining my life.”

She hadn’t expected her words to hurt him. In fact, had she thought that they might have, she would have laughed at the very idea. But his fingers curled in anger and he dropped the spoon into his cereal, which was now just milk, and twisted to face her.

“And how often have you ruined my plans?” he hissed, hands dropping to dig into the sides of his stool. “How often have I set up something positively perfect, only for you to rip it to shreds? You should have known that eventually I would start responding, Doctor. After all—” his lips curled into a sneer— “while murder is great fun, it’s even funnier to watch your face while I do it.”

She was on her feet before she knew what she was doing, spoon clattering, droplets of milk flying.

“And that is why we will never work together,” she shot back, voice dangerously low. “I will never work with a murderer, Koschei. And you’re the worst of the worst. How long will it take you to get that through your thick skull? I won’t cooperate with somebody like you. I’m better than that.”

“Oh, you really think that, do you?” He was standing as well, fingers twitching, jaw tight. “You, who destroyed half the universe—”

“On accident—”

“And committed so many atrocities in the war that even those who thank you for saving the universe are scared of what you can do?” he continued, cutting off her objection. “We both know that you’re as bad as I am, Theta. However you want to dress it up.”

She rocked back on her heels, seething, searching for words she didn’t know how to say. “At least I feel bad about it,” she spat at last, with such venom that he raised an eyebrow. “I think about the lives I’ve taken everyday, while you delight in them. That’s the difference between you and me.”

He didn’t immediately reply. Instead, he stepped forward lightly, almost nonchalantly, leaving his spent bowl on the counter, and brushed right by her, so close she could feel the whisper of his shoulder against hers. He paused, just after he passed, and she froze with him, their bodies just barely touching.

“Do you really think that’s the difference between us?” he whispered, voice so low she nearly didn’t catch the words. “That you feel guilt, and I don’t?”

“Yes,” she answered without a moment’s pause. Beside her, he gave the barest sigh.

“You just love to lord that over me, don’t you?” he said after a long second. She didn’t answer him. What was there to say? He was wrong, and she knew it. There was no lording it over him when it was the simple truth. 

After a moment, he moved by, stepping behind her and out the door. She whirled around and stared at his retreating back, wondering if she should summon a retort, but it was too late; he was already gone. Behind her, the cereal swam in now-pink milk, growing soggier by the second. 

She huffed out a breath, then turned back, meaning to pick up the spoon, only to jump as the familiar sound of the doorbell rang out.

The doorbell. She stilled, hearts leaping in her chest, and swallowed the hard lump of panic that bloomed like a mushroom in her throat.

Who could possibly be at the door? All her friends lived in Sheffield, and—she felt sure—wouldn’t visit her without reason. Marie was gone, as were the rest of her staff, and hadn’t been back since she’d kicked them out, thanks to the hefty checks she’d sent their way. The only people she could think of might be government officials, but she had nothing scheduled.

Unless the Master had scheduled something without her knowledge.

Fury, as expected as a sunrise, immediately pitted her chest. She spun around, fueled by the implications of the thought, and strode into the hallway, not bothering to change clothes. She never bothered as such for government officials—they could deal with her boxers and stained shirts, for all she cared.

The doorbell rang once more just before she reached it, and she gritted her teeth, a thousand nasty words already on her tongue.

“I don’t care what you want—” she began as she wrenched the door open, only to stop in surprise.

Yaz slowly lowered her raised fist, and, with nothing more to do with her hands, tucked her thumbs into her safety vest.

“Hi, Doctor,” she said, and when the Doctor didn’t answer, shifted awkwardly on her feet. “I—is this a bad time?”

“Yaz,” the Doctor said dumbly, astonishment dulling her brain. “What are you doing here?”

And the answer, of course, was that it was a bad time, but first, she needed to figure out why one of her new friends had ventured all the way to her house, and how to stop any further attempts.

“I, uh—” Yaz appeared confused, as if she hadn’t expected such a question. “We talked about it last week, remember? On the phone. That I would come over.”

“We—” The Doctor opened her mouth, then shut it again. Abrupt memory flooded through her, and just as immediately, her hearts sank.

The phone conversation. The Master butting in, and agreeing before she could shut Yaz down. And her, caught in the middle of day-to-day upheaval, having forgotten completely about it.

She had put Yaz in danger, simply because she’d forgotten to phone back.

“You have to go,” she said, and before Yaz could respond, stepped out the door, pushing her back towards the steps. “You can’t be here.”

“I—what?” Yaz didn’t resist as the Doctor shoved her around, but when she moved to push her down the first step she stopped in her tracks, like a cat resisting a bath. “Hang on—no! I didn’t drive all the way up here just so you could—”

“Yes, you did,” the Doctor told her, but despite her best attempts, Yaz was surprisingly stolid. She caught the banister leading down the steps and clung. “Sorry, and I hate how it has to be like this, believe me, but—”

“Are you Yaz?” A new, familiar voice had the Doctor freezing. She stopped, hands still on Yaz’s back, as Yaz took the opportunity to twist out of her grip and turn around.

“That’s me,” she said, confusion melting into a polite smile. “Hi. Are you the Doctor’s friend?”

The Master stepped onto the porch and gave a wide smile. “One and only. Well, maybe not only, but near enough.” He cast the Doctor a look, but she didn’t rise to the bait. She only stood there, helpless and once again furious, but unable to do anything about it.

He wouldn’t hurt her friends, she tried to convince herself. He wouldn’t, because he knew that it wouldn’t look good. That the Doctor would immediately raise a fit, and all of the world governments that she had watched him try to win over for the last few days would be looking at him in an entirely new light.

She tried to believe that. It didn’t quite work. 

“Yaz was just going,” she growled, only for Yaz, to her horror, to step out from behind her with an irritated look.

“No, I wasn’t,” she said, and cast the Master another smile, this one slightly warmer. “I came over to say hello before work. You know, like we talked about.”

This had to be directed at the Doctor, who didn’t even bother to complain at the jab. What did she care anymore that she had forgotten? It wasn’t the rudeness that bothered her—it was the fact that another one of her friends was standing not five feet from the Master, who wore a smile like a shark.

“We did,” he agreed with a dip of his chin. Then he stepped back and, grin broadening, swept a hand towards the door. “And we’d be incredibly rude if we didn’t offer you tea, wouldn’t we, Doctor?”

This was accompanied by a hard look, which the Doctor returned by way of a nasty glare. Yaz didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were still on the Master, gauging as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him, but after a moment, she stepped forward with a nod. 

“I’d love tea, if I’m being honest,” she admitted. “Didn’t even have time for coffee this morning, I was in such a rush.”

The Master made a sympathetic face. “We’ll have to fix that. C’mon, I’ll put the kettle on.”

He held the door open as Yaz stepped inside, then spun around and shot the Doctor an enormous smile.

“Don’t touch her,” she hissed, too low for Yaz, already in the house, to pick up. “I’ll kill you.”

“Relax, Doctor,” he said, “tea doesn’t involve death. Usually. Well—” he gave a small shrug— “depends on how I do it.”

She let out a harsh breath, just barely holding back the litany of things she wanted to scream at him, then stalked inside, pushing the door hard enough that it rebounded and hit him in what she guessed to be the shins. It must not have hurt too bad, however, for he didn’t make any noise except to let out a short breath, before stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

“Alright!” he called to Yaz, waiting in the hallway. “Tea!” He shot the Doctor a wink as he stepped by, then gave Yaz a grin and tilted his head toward the kitchen. “C’mon, love. I’m sure you’ve been here before.”

“Once.” Yaz lingered uncertainly, until the Master stepped by her and led them both into the kitchen, the Doctor reluctantly, Yaz with a curiosity she could sense even through her haze of low level panic.

What was it with Yasmin Khan, she wondered, and her interest in the world? Why couldn’t she just shut herself in her home and watch telly like most of the other humans?

The Master immediately launched into motion as they entered the kitchen, lunging first to the stove to put the kettle on, then to the cupboard to pull out mugs and spoons and sugar. He moved in twirling motion, halfway between a dance and simple movement, clattering silverware and dishes with careless abandon. It would have almost been funny, if it hadn’t been so strongly reminiscent of the way he’d been back when they were young. A blur of eagerness, nearly as excitable as the Doctor herself, every action done with the most intent of care.

Watching him now, eons removed, she absolutely hated it. 

The kettle began to sing around the time he’d finished setting out the mugs and spoons, and when the Doctor reached for the stove, ready to pour, he stopped her.

“Sit down, dear.” He clucked his tongue in a way so strongly reminiscent of his former incarnation that she glared at him. “I’ll grab it.”

“Are you sure we can’t help?” Yaz piped up, but the Master just shook his head as the Doctor slumped back onto her stool at the counter, sulking despite herself.

She hated this. More than anything, more than the fights and the angry words and the glares they shot each other, she hated the pseudo normalcy. Hated what she knew to lie beneath it, and hated how she couldn’t rip back his mask to reveal to Yasmin Khan the truth.

The Master poured each mug with generous care, then whirled around and plunked them both in front of the Doctor and Yaz before turning towards the fridge. Yaz reached out to take hers, but the Doctor didn’t touch it.

“I’m not in the mood for tea,” she told him, if only to be petulant, and watched his shoulders shake in a quiet laugh.

“I figured you’d say that,” he said, then turned around, a can caught in his hand. She didn’t catch the label until he set it down in front of her, and gave her a raised eyebrow grin.

“More your speed?”

The Doctor stared at the can of ginger beer, then shot him a glare. “Not in the morning, thanks.”

That was a lie, but she wasn’t about to let on. Beside her, Yaz made a noise of relief.

“Please, not in the morning,” she said. 

“Thought you’d say that.” The Master grinned, but didn’t remove the can of ginger beer. Instead, he picked up his own mug, and didn’t sit down, but instead leaned against the opposite side of the counter. He watched Yaz as she cradled her tea, something curious in his expression. The Doctor couldn’t decide whether she disliked it or not. 

“So,” the Master said a sip of tea later, “Yaz. How do you know the Doctor?”

“Uh—” Yaz, mid-sip, hurriedly set her tea down, crinkling her nose as steam curled into her face. “I came to drop Grace off. Er, Grace is her other friend. Comes to visit sometimes.”

“Does she?” The Master perked up.

“Not anymore,” the Doctor shot hurriedly, with a severe look. “I’ll visit her, next time we meet. Alone.”

“Fine.” The Master leaned back against the counter, cradling his tea. He nodded towards Yaz. “Go on.”

“Well, that’s it.” Yaz picked up her spoon, and though she hadn’t dumped any sugar in, began to stir. The Doctor still hadn’t touched hers. “I dropped off Grace, met the Doctor, and then I came by later to play chess.”

“You play chess.” It wasn’t phrased as a question. Rather, the Master leaned forward, excitement in his gaze. Yaz looked up, pausing mid-stir.

“Well,” she hedged, with a glance to the Doctor. “I mostly lost a lot. Even after she’d had a few of those.”

She frowned, and pointed her chin to the unopened ginger beer can. The Master followed her gaze, then threw back his head and laughed.

“Oh, I’ll bet!” His laugh was a howl, far too hearty to fit in his chest. The Doctor sat there, tea in front of her, and seethed. “She’s a wonderful host, isn’t she, our Doctor?”

“She’s one kind of host,” Yaz agreed, though her voice didn’t seem to hold any ill-will. When the Doctor found the courage to glance at her, she smiled slightly, and gave the smallest shake of her head. 

“Well, Yaz.” The Master set his mug down then leaned forward, clasping his hands upon the counter. “I’m assuming the Doctor didn’t actually teach you anything about chess, did she?” 

Yaz tore her gaze from the Doctor, and looked at him in confusion. “Well, not really.”

The Master smiled, all teeth. “Don’t suppose you’d like to learn from a real master, would you?”

“She wouldn’t,” the Doctor snapped, before she could help herself. Yaz looked to her in surprise, but the Master just chuckled.

“Don’t mind her.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, then straightened, smoothing out the wrinkles from his vest. “Doesn’t want to spill her secrets. Here, let me grab the chess set. I’ll show you a few tricks before you go.”

“Really?” Yaz watched him with eager eyes as he ventured into the living room, returning a few moments later with the box tucked under his arm. He ignored the Doctor’s glare to start setting up the board, dividing the black and white pieces and placing them according to their type.

“I don’t think Yaz is interested in playing chess,” the Doctor growled through gritted teeth as Yaz slid from her stool, tea forgotten, and came around to the other side of the counter.

“I am, actually.” She shot the Doctor a look that had her, to her surprise, shutting up, despite the uncertainty that bubbled in her chest. “I’d like a bit of an advantage, next time we go toe to toe.”

“Stick with me, Yaz, you’ll get one,” the Master murmured, then stepped back and swept a hand to the chess board. “There you go. Now—you be white, I’ll be black. Let me show you the—”

The scenario was unbelievable. The Doctor sat there, trapped in agonizing frustration, unable to do anything as the Master did the exact thing she had no reason to stop him doing.

He was making her jealous. Taking her friends, and playing the perfect gentleman, just so they would like him more. Fury bubbled in her chest, along with an envy so strong she could feel herself going green at the roots. 

Yaz should be playing chess with her, she thought viciously, and then recalled that all she had done was beat her into the dust.

“And that’s how you can win a game pretty easily against a lesser opponent.” Yaz watched, bright eyed with interest, as the Master moved pieces across the board. “Now, I’ll show you what to do if you’re playing against somebody better equipped. First of all—”

The Doctor barely realized she was reaching for the ginger beer until she tilted the can and watched the contents pour into her cup of tea. Yaz, busy with the game, didn’t notice, but the Master did, and he shot her a broad, toothy grin, to which she only snarled silently.

The tea tasted much better that way. So much better, in fact, that pretty soon she’d emptied out the contents and filled another mug, this time just with the ginger beer. She was on a third by the time the Master moved on to another strategy, and by her fifth, she was positively swimming in it, watching through a haze of drunken, self-pitying jealousy as the Master carefully taught Yaz how to win at chess in a variety of ways.

“You okay, Doctor?” After a while, Yaz’s voice cut sharply through her dizziness, and she blinked at her languidly. Her chin was jammed deep into her palm, her elbow propped onto the counter. She felt both as if she were on the verge of falling over, and as if she couldn’t move.

“’M fine,” she slurred, and knew immediately that she had no chance of hiding it. Still, she gave it a brave attempt; with only a slight struggle, she forced herself to straighten, weaving in place on the stool. “’M fine.”

The Master chuckled, and she frowned. Vaguely, she wondered why she was so affected by the relatively small amount she’d drunken, then remembered that she hadn’t touched her cereal. Nor could she recall eating much the night before.

Not the best decision, probably.

“Aren’t you playing chess?” she tried instead, but it didn’t work. Yaz only straightened with worry, tucking her thumbs into her vest.

“I mean, I need to get to work soon.” The Doctor, in a distant way, watched as she glanced between her and the Master. “But you look like you’re about to keel over.”

“’M not,” the Doctor protested, and just to prove it, pushed herself to her feet. The stool slid out from beneath her and she wobbled, then pitched forward.

It was both Yaz and the Master who caught her, diving around the counter to grab her before she hit the ground.

“Whoa there!” The Master hoisted her arm over his shoulder, and after a beat, Yaz did the same. Some part of the Doctor reacted instinctively, pulling away, but for the amount of drink she had ingested, it manifested as nothing more than a weak shove.

“G’off me,” she muttered into a purple suited shoulder. “Specially you. G’off me, or I’ll…break your nose.”

“Who is she talking about?” Yaz whispered, and she felt a chuckle move through the Master’s chest as he shook his head back and forth. 

“Think she’s talking about me,” he said, and the Doctor, half caught in muddy panic, waited for him to turn on Yaz, to reveal his true self and do the exact thing she was failing to prevent.

She shouldn’t have gotten drunk, she thought, mind cycling through hazy fear. She had to straighten, maybe push him to the ground before he—

“We should get her to bed,” the Master grunted, and the Doctor heard a quick murmur of agreement from Yaz before she felt herself being hoisted onto unbalanced feet. 

“I said…g’off me,” she tried again, but this time, both of them laughed. She tried again to argue, but couldn’t make the words come out as they steered her out the kitchen and down the hallway, through the door of her bedroom and then, at last, onto her bed. 

“Don’t…m’not going to bed,” she told them, but she was already lying down, and the bed was incredibly soft, and she hadn’t gotten much sleep during the night, anyway. She could already feel her eyes starting to close, but she forced herself not to give in. “I just…need a minute.”

“Sure.” She heard Yaz laugh, and through bleary eyes, watched her straighten. “Well, I’ve got to get to work, anyway. Thanks for the tea, though. And the chess.”

“Anytime,” the Master said smoothly, and she watched hazily as he shook her hand, then turned to show her to the door. Hastily, the Doctor sat up, head spinning, but he didn’t leave her sight. He only stepped briefly into the hallway, pointed towards the front door, and watched her go for a moment before turning back to the Doctor.

He frowned. “You look like a mess.”

“So do you,” she shot back, which wasn’t true. “And your hair looks really bad, the way you comb it. Just sayin’.”

His frown deepened, but he didn’t say anything, and after a moment of struggle—and once she heard the distant click of the front door closing—she gave in and slumped once more upon the bed.

“You can leave now,” she growled, but the Master just laughed, then crossed the room and settled upon the foot of her bed. She made a weak move to kick him, but she was drunk and uncoordinated, and he pushed her foot easily away.

“I told you to get out of my room,” she said, but he only shrugged.

“You’re drunk, and you look like you’re about to pass out,” he said. “I’m just making sure you don’t throw up before you do it.”

“Why do you care if I throw up?” she retorted, and once more, he gave a shrug.

“If you choke on your own vomit, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Hmmm.” This was, unfortunately, sensible. She still didn’t like it, however. But at the same time, her eyelids were drooping shut, and though she knew she ought to get up and keep an eye on him, at the moment she wanted nothing more than to give in to unconsciousness. “Why didn’t you hurt her?”

“What?” The Master’s eyes widened in surprise. “Did you want me to?”

“No!” She sat further upright, pulling the blankets up. “But you could have. Why didn’t you?”

“Honestly?” He thought about it for a long moment—so long that the Doctor began to wonder if he was having regrets. “I’ll admit, it’s fun to watch you cry over them. But it’s also fun to watch you go green with jealousy.”

“I wasn’t green,” she responded, but by the Master’s raised eyebrow, she knew that he wasn’t buying it. “And besides,” she added hurriedly. “That never stopped you before.”

He smiled then, as if she were a child. “Dear, but I have both a planet and a quadrant to run. You don’t think it would be odd if I started killing off every human that showed up at my doorstep?”

She thought about this. “The Time Lords wouldn’t care.”

“No, but the humans would.” He frowned, and brought a hand up to rub at his beard. “Besides, I have other things to worry about. It’d be nice to pick off the flies, but I can’t always waste time killing bugs.”

She stared at him, stomach twisting in disgust. “I hate that you talk like that, you know.”

“What—about the humans?” When she nodded, he drew back, then cocked his head, contemplative. “Like you don’t think about them the same way. Like they’re lesser than you.”

“No, but I—” Care about them, she began to say, only to stop herself. Because did she really? She hadn’t shown that care, except maybe in ways that didn’t matter. She let them rule themselves, but didn’t step in the break up conflict. She never lifted a finger to make things better, when she easily could have.

Was negligence, she wondered, worse than outright maliciousness? She didn’t think so. But then—

“—I don’t want to hurt them,” she finished instead, “even if it benefits me. That’s why I can’t trust you, you know. Because even if you don’t kill them now, you could so easily. You’ve done it before.”

“And you haven’t?” he tilted his head again, a challenge. Immediately, she bristled.

“Not out of wanting,” she snapped, though even that wasn’t entirely true. How many times had she lashed out in anger, in pain—? “I mean—even if I do want, I try not to! That’s it,” she declared in drunken triumph, at last laying her finger on the difference. “I don’t care what you say about us being the same. I try not to be, and that’s why I’ll always be better than you.”

Anger flashed in the Master’s eyes, and he rose to his feet, bed creaking.

“And yet you’re so obsessed with being better than me,” he hissed, hands curling, “that you never stop to think whether you actually are, Doctor. Maybe that difference isn’t as clear as you think it is.”

And then, before she could think of a stunning retort, he turned on his heel and swept out of the room, coat fluttering behind him. She stared after him in irritated confusion, left with the vague sense that she had missed something important, though she had no idea what it was. 

Not that it mattered. She was right, and whatever the Master said wouldn’t change that. With a huff, she flopped back onto her pillows, then turned onto her side, pulling the blankets to her chin. She had just half a second to chase the puzzling thoughts he left her with, and then sleep took over, dragging her into oblivion.

When she woke, hours later, late afternoon sunshine streaming through the blinds, her mind was a mess of agonizing nightmares, her face was soaked with tears, and the bed felt emptier than it ever had.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP SORRY I FORGOT THIS EXISTED
> 
> also im not sure anybody's reading this but some ppl threatened me to update so uh here you go LMAO
> 
> enjoy fgnjkdfggf

Following Yaz’s visit, the Doctor didn’t speak to the Master for nearly a week. She couldn’t; Yaz’s visit, and the following drunken conversation, put an odd distance between the two of them. Rather than the hatred that usually bubbled up so easily, things settled into an awkward sort of embarrassment, or at least, so it did on the Doctor’s side. She couldn’t avoid the fact that she had gotten drunk twice in front of Yasmin Khan, and worse, she had let her and the Master put her to bed.

The latter was the worst, if only because it involved her archenemy. She couldn’t reconcile the strange normalcy with which he acted with their eons of rivalry, and so it set her at a strange tension. To compensate, she did something she never did unless forced to.

She read the news.

The Doctor despised the news. Once, back long before the war, when she’d been but a traveler with friends across the universe, she hadn’t minded them. She’d read the news to keep up on the happenings, to see how things were going in her friends’ parts of the universe, or just to keep informed. Now, reading the news only filled her with a hopeless sense of dread, as if she’d long lost the fight and was only left to pick up the pieces.

She avoided the news—except for the local Earth stuff, if she had to—at every chance. However, the Master read them, which meant that, out of sheer obstinacy, so would she.

Which was how he found her once week after Yasmin Khan’s visit, seated at the counter with a half-eaten piece of toast in one hand and a holographic display in front of the other.

The Master paused in the doorway, his eyes flicking from the toast to the display.

“That’s my newsreader.”

“You left it out,” she retorted, and used one finger to flick through another headline. Things, to her surprise, weren’t looking that good throughout the galaxy, and she couldn’t figure out why. Although the reports from the High Council insisted an ironclad rule across the universe—and the reports she received and sometimes bothered to read backed that up—there were a surprising amount of headlines detailing sprouts of resistance.

It was almost as if the entire universe hadn’t taken so easily to their subjugation. 

“Did you know there’s anti-Gallifreyan resistance in your quadrant?” she asked him before he could get another word out. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it again.

“Resisters are found and dealt with easily.” His jaw was tight. She ignored the tension filling the room, and flicked through another headline.

“You have a fairly big problem for being the most powerful quadrant in the universe.”

“Powerful and biggest,” he corrected. “Size lends itself to problems, Doctor. Then again—” His gaze swept over her, and he gave that grin she so often despised— “sometimes size can be misleading.”

“Can it.” She skimmed another headline about several resisters being executed—depressing, Rassilon this was depressing—then closed the display and shoved it away from her. “Is that why you keep staying short?”

She hadn’t expected this to be a pressure point; however, to her surprise and satisfaction, he immediately bristled. 

“Is that why you do?”

Without thinking, she flinched, then internally cursed. Of course he would bring up such a thing, only it wasn’t fair; they both knew she had lost several lives in using the Moment.

“Don’t know,” she shot back, fury rising slowly beneath her skin, “didn’t have much time to check.”

For a moment, it looked as if he were about to snap something back. Instead, he swallowed hard, visibly forcing himself to calm, and stepped fully into the kitchen.

“If you’re reading the news, does this mean you’re going to actually do something about them?”

The accusation was barely hidden, and she resented it. She drew back in annoyance. “What is there to do about it? This doesn’t involve Earth. This is your quadrant, _love_.” 

“Which Earth is now a part of.” He pushed toast into the toaster and set the dial. “I would think you’d take an interest in your own planet.”

“I do,” she said, then backtracked. “Well, I let them run themselves. Freedom is important, you know. Maybe not for you, but other people aren’t so obsessed with control.”

He tossed back his head and laughed then, without looking at her. “Oh, like you aren’t?”

“Control of myself, maybe,” she returned. “Agency, like every other person in the universe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He snorted, his eyes on the toaster. “Keep fooling yourself, Doctor, and once you figure out that you are, don’t come crying to me. Or do. It’ll be satisfying.” 

The toast popped up, and he snatched both pieces, hissing slightly at the heat. The Doctor took satisfaction from this, but only a crumb; the rest of her watched him glumly, unable to summon a response. She was angry, sure, but she was always angry at him. It was exhausting, creeping around her house all day, reading the news just to catch up and worrying about what he might do next, when he wasn’t doing anything. She hated it, and she wanted him gone, but she already knew that such a pipe dream would never come true.

As much as she longed for agency, she hadn’t had it for the past seventy years, and the High Council weren’t about to hand it to her now.

“I’m going to visit my friends.” She stood abruptly, seizing onto the little freedom she had with both hands. “And you’re not going to follow me. You’re not going to bother me either, because whether we’re working together or not, you don’t get to decide what I do. Not now, not ever.”

He glanced at her, halfway through buttering his toast, and raised an eyebrow. “Do you always start the morning with ultimatums? Because it’s really tiring.”

“Only to you,” she retorted, and pushed back her stool, vaguely thankful that she had, for once, decided to get dressed before eating breakfast. Now she needed only to put on her boots and leave him to his devices, whatever that may be.

Some part of her felt a wave of unease at the thought, but hopelessness pushed it down. It was true she didn’t know what she was up to, but he’d been there nearly two weeks, and things had continued with suspicious normalcy. He would probably try something eventually, and the Doctor would have to be ready.

But until then, she missed her friends.

The Master said nothing to her as she swept out of the kitchen, and she didn’t bother to toss him a goodbye before shoving on her boots and stepping out of the house. There was no point; they weren’t friends, and as far as she was concerned, they had nothing to say to each other.

But when she stepped onto the porch, the chauffeur was waiting for her, the window rolled down and a toothy smile on his face.

“You called, ma’am?” he asked, pressing one finger to his cap in a mock salute.

She stared at him. “No.”

He shrugged. “Must have been your friend, then. He’s usually the one who needs me.”

So the Master had been going out and about, and under her nose no less. She suppressed the urge to turn around and demand an explanation, and instead stepped forward. “Does he leave often?”

“About once a day or so.” He frowned. “Something wrong with that, ma’am?”

“You don’t need to call me ma’am,” she said absentmindedly, the gears in her head slowly turning. She opened her mouth to ask another question, then decided it best to do it from the safety of the car, where the Master wouldn’t hear.

Unless he had it bugged. 

“Alright.” She descended the stairs in clomping steps, then opened the back door and slid inside. “Can you take me to the house you picked me up from about a week ago?”

“Sure can, ma’am.” He put the gear in reverse, and began to back carefully out of the driveway.

“You don’t need to—” she began, then sighed, surrendering. “Never mind. Anyway. My friend—where do you usually take him?”

The chauffeur chuckled. “You should be asking where I don’t take him, honestly. All over Sheffield, for the most part. Says he’s scouting out something for a business. Though, if I’m being honest, I didn’t take you lot for the business types.” He hesitated. “Er, not you lot. Time Lords, I mean, ma’am.”

“It’s fine,” the Doctor responded without really paying attention. She was too lost in thought, her mind spinning with revelation. “That’s interesting, er—”

“Henry, ma’am.”

“Alright, Henry.” Though she wasn’t feeling it, she forced a smile upon her face. “Nice to meet you. You seem surprisingly relaxed, for working with us.”

It was a question she probably shouldn’t have asked, for her own sake, but curiosity led her. In response, Henry only shrugged, his eyes fixed on the road.

“Have to be, ma’am. Chauffeur can see all types. And no offense intended at all, but I’ve driven some crazy people. The richer the crazier, I always say. Not that you’re crazy, but—” he grinned— “never hurts to be calm.”

“Never hurts,” she echoed. “You’re right.”

She could use some of that, if she was being honest. Though she hadn’t had a panic attack recently, it was only now that she was out of the house that she was realizing just how much she had been stewing in anxiety over the past week or so. The Master’s presence was like a pin pricking constantly at the back of her neck, just enough to give her a phantom itch, never enough to cause a welt. It irritated her, and frightened her, and so she sat in a malaise of anxious uncertainty, waiting for a thunderstorm that never came.

She’d needed to get out of the house, she realized, and it was only then that she realized she hadn’t bothered to call ahead either. 

So much for being a good friend. 

The ride took less time than she expected. In fact, it seemed like no time at all when Henry pulled up to Grace’s door, and let her out with a tip of his hat.

“You enjoy yourself, ma’am!” he said, then dug around in his pocket, producing a card with a number that he passed over to her. “I’ll be around if you need me. Not many people to chauffeur in Sheffield, if I’m being honest.”

“Thank you,” she told him, and pocketed the card, then watched him drive off, wondering vaguely if she had made a new friend. 

To her surprise, Grace opened the door almost immediately upon her knocking.

“Grace?” she asked. Grace stared at her, surprise mirrored in her own expression.

“Doctor? What are you doing here?”

“Uh—” All of a sudden, the Doctor felt awkward, and extremely unwelcome. “I just—wanted to say hello. Unless I’m—”

“You’re not intruding.” Grace smiled, then stepped to the side, opening the door wider to let her through. “Come in, love. Graham is here, but Ryan’s out looking for jobs. Heard about a new warehouse opening up, and since he lost his job at the old one—”

“Oh.” The Doctor stepped inside, shivering slightly as she transitioned from the chilly outdoors to the warm and welcome atmosphere inside. “I’m sorry to hear that. How’d he lose it?”

“Not his fault.” Grace shook her head. “Just plain bad luck. Downsizing, and he was young and new. They figured he could get another job, and of course here’s hoping he can, but—” she shrugged, and the Doctor felt a wave of sympathy. 

“I’m sure he will,” she told Grace, for lack of any other encouragement. She’d never been good at encouraging her human friends at the best of times, except to get them into trouble and now, seventy years out of practice, she could practically feel the rust flaking off of her. “He’s a smart lad, Ryan. He should try working at a garage.”

“He will once he gets his NVQ!” Graham’s voice echoed from the living room entrance. Grace and the Doctor both turned as the man appeared himself, a smile upon his face. “Hey, Doc! Didn’t expect you here, and so early.”

“Didn’t expect myself here if I was being honest,” she responded. She didn’t mention anything about the Master’s irritating presence, and how he’d finally driven her to escape her own house. “But I wanted to get out and about. Maybe check on your car, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t need to.” Grace grinned proudly, straightening slightly. “Ryan finished it up after you left. Fixed the whole thing himself.”

The Doctor gaped. “What? No way.”

“Sure did.” Graham clapped his hands together, looking, the Doctor noticed, nearly as proud as Grace. “That boy knows machines upside down and backwards. Wasting his time in a warehouse, but—”

“Oh, shush,” Grace shot at him, before ushering the Doctor into the living room. “He’ll be done with that once he gets his NVQ. You know he just likes to take things slow.”

“I know, I’m only saying—”

Their discussion continued as the Doctor followed them into the living room, then to the table, where Grace announced that she would make coffee.

“We’ve already had breakfast, but I could do with another cup,” she declared, before looking questioningly at the Doctor. “Unless you’re hungry—?”

“No, I had mine too,” the Doctor answered, and once Grace set off into the kitchen, took a seat at the table, marveling at the ease with which she did so. It was odd, how even after only a few measly visits, she felt as comfortable in Grace’s home as she did in her own. Actually, with the Master haunting her house, she felt more comfortable.

“So.” Graham settled into a chair as well, and placed his hands on the table in front of him, fingers woven together. “You’ve got to tell me more about flavors on other planets. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask—” he leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially— “do you have a ship or something? Because I for one would love to see—”

The Doctor was saved from answering by the sudden sound of the door slamming open. She jumped in her chair, panicky only for a moment, then slumped back in relief as Ryan, kitted out in a heavy coat and cap, appeared in the living room entrance.

“I’m back,” he said, and took off his cap, face crinkling disgust as he shook off droplets of water. “And it started raining. Also, you’ll never guess who I found.”

“Who?” Graham asked, but he was saved an answer as Yaz stepped into the living room as well, casting them both a broad grin.

“Came by for coffee,” she said, only to pause as she caught sight of the Doctor. “Oh—hi, Doctor.”

The Doctor shifted uncomfortably, embarrassment surging over her at her latest Yasmin Khan-involved memories. “Hiya, Yaz.”

“Nice to see you on your feet.” She grinned, in a way that told the Doctor she was both immediately forgiven, and would not be allowed to forget it anytime soon.

It was amazing, the Doctor reflected, how humans could pack so many words into something as simple as a smile. Amazing, and slightly terrifying.

“She’s sitting down, Yaz,” Ryan said, and moved to the table as well, shedding his coat as he went. 

“Oi, you better not be leaving that on the floor!” Graham objected, expression only hardening until Ryan groaned and, rather than dropping the coat where he stood, reached the table and draped it over a chair instead.

“You’ll never guess where we met,” he said, sliding into the same chair as upon which he’d dropped the coat.

“It’s not that cool, Ryan,” Yaz said dryly as she found a chair as well.

“Okay, well it’s a coincidence, right?” he replied. “I mean, here I was, interviewing for that new factory they’re setting up—”

Graham crinkled his nose. “Son, why on Earth do you want to do factory work?”

“It’s fair money, yeah?” Ryan said, frowning at the implication. “And besides, it’s harder than it looks! Besides, this one’s cool. I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement and everything just to do the interview.”

“Which is how he found me pulling security on the place,” Yaz cut in, “and my shift was ending, so I thought I’d come over. If you don’t mind.”

“Well, it’s not like anybody seems to be asking if we mind these days.” Graham leaned back in his chair and nodded to the Doctor, who cringed. “I’m kidding, cockle. And you, Yaz. You’re both welcome whenever.”

“But you could phone ahead!” Grace’s voice rang from the kitchen, and Yaz broke into an embarrassed smile.

“Sorry, Ryan’s nan!”

“It’s not you I’m talking about, love!” Grace returned. It took the Doctor a moment to realized she was being called out.

“Oi!” she complained, flushing slightly with embarrassment, but the others were only chuckling, and after a moment she relaxed.

“You’re joking,” she said, just to be clear, and Ryan nodded.

“Yeah, we figured your lot are sort of above cell phones,” he replied, then frowned. “Actually, what do you have, then? Is it like Star Trek?”

“No, it’s mostly telepathic,” the Doctor responded without thinking, only to draw back at the three surprised faces before her. “What?”

“You’re kidding,” Graham said flatly, to which she slowly shook her head.

“Why would I be?”

“Because that’s crazy.” Ryan was staring at her, impressed. “You can really read our minds?”

The Doctor thought of the dreadful telepathic links she’d used in the past, the touch telepathy that she’d long ago closed off out of discomfort, and winced. “Not really. It’s different than what you’d think.”

“How different?” Yaz was leaning forward with interest, curiosity clear on her face. “If you don’t read minds, what do you do?”

“We just—” The Doctor hesitated, unsure how to describe—or indeed, if she even wanted to. She wasn’t sure humans would be able to grasp the complexities, and besides, dig too deep and she’d have to admit that she wasn’t the most in-tune telepath out there. Only Grace and Dr. Benton were fully aware of her telepathic abilities, and how they’d been affected by her trauma. “It’s sort of private.”

“Oh.” Yaz sat back, disappointed, but only for a moment. Then she smiled. “That’s okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t,” the Doctor said hastily, lest hard feelings be had. “You’re fine, really. I just—”

“Hang on, hang on.” It was Graham who held up his hands this time, drawing the Doctor into silence. “You’re not reading our minds though, right? At least out of politeness?”

In truth, humans had such little telepathic sense that the Doctor would have to pry hard to get a sense of any one human being’s thoughts. Still, she smiled. “Not at all, Graham. And I wouldn’t, besides. In my culture, such a thing would be considered extremely rude.”

“Oh. Alright then.” He sagged, clearly relieved. “Just making sure.”

“Making sure about what?” Grace’s voice came from the kitchen entrance, three cups of coffee balanced in her hands. She nodded towards Ryan, who stood immediately. “Ryan, love, go get the rest.”

“Telepathy,” Yaz explained as Grace busied herself handing out cups of coffee. “The Doctor says she’s telepathic.”

Grace cast the Doctor a discerning glance before answering. “Oh, yeah. I was aware of that. Thought she didn’t use it though, right, Doctor?”

“Never have, Grace,” the Doctor responded with a weak smile. Grace studied her for a long moment, lips pursed, before passing over a cup of coffee and looking away, leaving the Doctor to slump relievedly back into her seat. She doubted Grace would spill her private psychological history, but experience had taught her that she didn’t understand humans very well, and was even worse at predicting their actions. 

“Well, that’s alright then.” As Ryan brought in the last two cups of coffee, Grace seated herself across from the Doctor, and leaned forward, wrapping her hands around her own mug. “So, what brought you here, love?”

“Well—” The Doctor hesitated, lies springing to her tongue, though none that she wanted to say. She was an easy liar, but the thought of lying to her friends sat uncomfortably in her stomach. Still, the truth was dangerous left in the wrong hands—particularly in the hands of well-doing humans.

“—just needed to get out of the house,” she finished awkwardly, and moved her gaze from Grace, who watched her for a long moment before raising her mug to her lips.

“Is that because of the friend you don’t like?”

At Yaz’s question, the Doctor nearly dropped her mug. As it was, she instead spilled a good portion on her lap, drawing a long string of Gallifreyan curses from her lips.

“Okay, I’ve got to learn those,” Ryan said, head nodding approvingly as Graham wordlessly passed the Doctor a pile of paper napkins. She took it gratefully, and bit her tongue against another curse as she dabbed at her trousers.

“No,” she lied, teeth clenched so hard she knew she was giving herself away immediately. “We just…have a strained working relationship. Nothing odd about that.”

“I heard he was the new co-representative of Earth, actually.” Graham was watching her with worried eyes. “Saw it on the news. Seems like a nice bloke, if I’m being honest. Very involved.”

Was it just her fate, the Doctor wondered bitterly, for the Master’s shadow to follow her wherever she stepped? She could almost feel him now, lurking at the corners of her vision. 

“Hmmm.” Grace was watching her as well, her lips pressed firmly together. “Involved isn’t always a good thing, though. Ask me, I don’t want somebody from another planet ruling our own. Uh, no offense, Doctor.”

“None taken.” The Doctor scrunched up the napkins and deposited them on the table in front of her, then picked up her now nearly-empty coffee cup once more. “Freedom is one of the most important things in the universe. You ask me, you lot are better off ruling yourselves. It’s just that I don’t always get to decide.”

“Who does then?” Yaz asked. Then, as the Doctor looked up, she frowned. “Well. The Time Lords do, don’t they? Only they never seem to bother us.”

Ryan snorted. “Nobody bothers Earth, Yaz. We’re a level five planet, remember? We’re nobody.”

“Oi!” The Doctor objected. “Not nobody! You lot are brilliant! You’re just…small, right now. But you won’t be if you keep at it.”

And if the Doctor managed to keep them under her protection, a prospect that was looking worse and worse by the minute.

“So is it true he’s your co-representative?” Grace pressed, and without thinking, the Doctor grimaced. Too late, she realized that it showed on her face. 

“Not really,” she said carefully. “Well, he is in the sense that he’s in charge of this quadrant, which just absorbed Earth. But that means nothing,” she added hastily at the table of alarmed faces. “It’s just politics and reshuffling. I’m still in charge, and I’m not going anywhere.”

She hoped. But even the thought that she might not, that she might be chained to Earth forever, pitted her with a strange sense of homesickness. As if she longed for the stars, rather than a place to stay among them. Of course, that was under the agreement that she’d willingly taken seventy years ago, but—still. Sometimes it ached, in a way she couldn’t ignore.

“Politics and reshuffling.” Grace was shaking her head. “And no say from us. You know, sometimes it seems awfully unfair, this system.”

“Grace—” Graham said, with a warning glance to the Doctor, but Grace ignored him.

“No, Graham, she understands!” She swept a hand to the Doctor who, caught between confusion and surprise, only sat there, torn. “The Doctor supports Earth’s freedom, doesn’t she? She said it herself—she believes we should rule ourselves.”

“But nobody rules themselves, nan,” Ryan argued. “The Time Lords rule everything. That’s the way it’s always been.”

“Not alwa—” The Doctor began, only to snap her mouth shut. Because what she had been about to say was dangerously close to treason. Sure, she had arrived to Earth seventy years ago, but the Time Lords had been hard at work before that, bending the timelines so as to make it appear as if they had always been in charge. To the humans, seventy years ago, there had simply been another reshuffling, which had deposited the Doctor at their feet.

But what Grace was saying was treason too. Not that people didn’t say that—the news articles she had read that morning were proof enough—but they also paid the price. The fact that Grace felt comfortable saying such things, and to the Doctor no less, was only a testament to how loosely the Doctor held Earth’s reigns.

It was also incredibly dangerous. Because in the rest of the universe, resisters always paid the price, and sometimes they didn’t even realize it. Sometimes, when the Time Lords didn’t want to make an example, they simple bent a timeline out of existence, demolishing an entire planet, or an entire species. 

The Doctor had seen things before, both in the war, and after it. In the war, it had been an act of desperation. Now, in the wake of the conflict, it was only a cruel measure of control.

They couldn’t talk about this, she thought suddenly. She shouldn’t even have let the topic sway towards such a path. She was new to this, these human friends and conversations, but she should have known better. Not that people were watching—she didn’t think people were watching—but in this new reality, where the High Council ruled and the Master tracked her every moment, she could never be too careful. 

Hurriedly, fingers trembling around the handle, she raised her cup to her lips. “Lovely coffee, Grace. What kind of brew is it?”

Grace, watching her carefully, seemed to get the message. Quickly, she jumped on the change of topic. “Brazilian, actually. Got it special at the same shop we buy tea. You know, if you ever need—”

She continued on, but the Doctor barely heard. She was too busy quaking internally, the near miss tingling like a bullet zipping by her head. Technically, she couldn’t even be sure it was a near miss. But still—but still—

But still, the entire world was turned on its head, and it was only now, perhaps seventy years too late, was the Doctor starting to realize that she didn’t understand it at all.


	20. Chapter 20

She stayed as long as she could, calling the chauffeur only when Yaz left and it became clear that the Sinclairs were ready to go about their evening business unbothered. She didn’t speak on the ride home, not even when Henry probed her politely for conversation. Instead, she only stared at the window, dull, horrific realization swirling in her gut.

She’d been too blinded by her hatred of the Master to realize just what danger she was in. Not the wild, passionate danger of the Master himself—that had been tamed through years of absolute control over an entire quadrant of the universe. Instead, she had missed the very thing she had refused to see seventy years ago, when Missy had been clawing her way to power.

The Master was a pawn, and he knew it, and he used it. The Doctor was a pawn, and she’d long since given up fighting against it. Instead, she allowed herself to be moved about the board, the weakest piece of the set, with no hope of making it to the other side. In saving the human race, she’d crippled herself, surrendering all chance of ever becoming the queen. 

But what, she wondered desperately, could she possibly have done? The High Council sat at the top of the greatest hegemony in the history of the universe, and she, though ostensibly their hero, sat at the bottom. She’d traded up any chance of power for an ounce of freedom, and she wasn’t even sure she could bring herself to regret it.

Because it wasn’t just freedom for her. It was freedom for the human race, even if it only existed for as long as she obeyed.

_If you forget the rest of the universe_ , a voice whispered in the back of her head, and she flinched, drawing a strange look from Henry. She ignored him to stare out the window, unable to take her eyes off the moving landscape lest she fall prey to the maelstrom of frantic indecision brewing within her head.

The problem was, it had been a very long time since she’d ever had to decide something. The feeling was foreign, and vaguely unwelcome, particularly because she wasn’t sure what there might be to decide. She felt only a dim sense of existential terror, an echo of that feeling long ago, when she’d felt the world being swept out from beneath her feet, and she powerless to stop it.

She’d known for decades that the Time Lord ruled the universe—hell, it was she who had cemented the very idea. She wasn’t blind to the fact that most of the universe lived under the thumb of the High Council, Earth notwithstanding. She knew, if only rationally, that any resistance would be suppressed, if not outright dealt with.

But she had never entertained the idea in her very own home until, sitting across from her new human friends, watching them discuss their freedom as if they had any say, it had finally hit her just how very trapped they all were.

The human race only existed in relative freedom because they were weak and small, and the Doctor protected them. But the Doctor’s power was now eroding, the Master having come to swipe the rug from out beneath her feet. If she stayed passive, if she refused to fight back and simply ignored his movements, then sooner rather than later, she would find her control gone and the Earth subjugated, just like the rest of the universe.

She couldn’t let that happen. 

“Have a nice night, ma’am,” Henry called to her cheerily as she stepped out of the car and into a light drizzle. She only nodded, unable to speak with the lump in her throat. Henry, like billion of other humans, lived his life clumsily ignorant of how privileged he was—and if she let that end, she would never forgive herself.

By the time she stomped over the threshold, sending water droplets flying, her anxiety had spiked and shifted into a dark mood, which she carried with her into the kitchen and to the fridge. She opened the door, and withdrew a can of ginger beer with such jumpy force that she nearly dropped it twice before slamming the door behind her.

“Had a nice day, love?”

The Doctor nearly leapt out of her skin. She cursed, then spun around, soaked hair shedding water like a dog.

“What do you want?” she snarled, highly conscious of how strung-out she must look. She felt it too, the edginess roiling in her stomach, edging into panic.

The Master was her enemy. She’d known that all along, but she’d been thinking of it the wrong way, because it wasn’t he who she had to be scared of; it was who he reported to. She was fighting not only her personal enemy, but those who worked above him, and at the moment, she had absolutely no advantage.

Which meant she would have to gain one, and soon.

The Master leaned easily against the doorway, crossing his arms. He had changed into ridiculously expensive looking pajamas, so silken she felt sure they couldn’t be comfortable.

“Just asking a question.” He smirked, but if there was humor in the expression, it was known only to him. All of a sudden, the Doctor couldn’t help but feel like she’d been staring at a pool of water, and seeing only the surface. Below, as she’d stared blankly at her reflection, monsters had moved.

And she had been missing it entirely.

“Yeah, well, don’t really feel like answering,” she shot back, and with two fingers popped open the can of ginger beer, then tossed her neck back and chugged half of it in one go. She knew she probably shouldn’t be drinking, but she couldn’t resist; with the realization that she was backed into a corner, no room to maneuver, she had no choice to turn to what she knew best.

And currently, that was getting really, really drunk.

At the very least, she thought as the first feel of the drink hit, she might not be so panicky. She couldn’t decide which would be easier to think through; the haze of panic, or the haze of beer.

She chose the latter.

In the doorway, the Master dropped his chin, and gave a snort of disbelief. “You really do drink every night,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, I’d heard rumors, but—”

“Don’t need the judgment, thanks.” She cut him off with a nasty look and a tilted back chin, swigging the last of the ginger beer. The moment it was gone, she opened the fridge and reached for another, pricklingly conscious of his eyes upon her.

“You don’t have to look at me,” she called over her shoulder, and heard a quiet laugh.

“Not much else to look at.”

“You’ve got the whole kitchen.” She turned around, using her shoulders to close the fridge door, and narrowed her eyes at him. She could feel condensation collecting on her fingers from the can, and she wondered, fleetingly, what it would feel like to throw it at his head. Not even to hit, but to make him duck. She longed for that feeling, the victory of catching him off guard. After they were friends, when they were only enemies, it was all she lived for within the confines of their relationship. There had been a long space before that, when she’d been bitter and angry, and pined for ages for his stupid soul, but then that passed and she’d only wanted to win.

Now, she didn’t know what she felt. She no longer wanted to win for the pure joy of watching his smug smirk fall away. She only felt scared, and helpless as a bug under a magnifying glass, only it wasn’t his magnifying glass, and the ray of light that made her burn came from a planet on the other side of the universe.

She was tired of games, but she had no choice but to play.

The Master watched her as she pulled open the second can of ginger beer and began to down it in long swallows. “That’s truly impressive, you know.”

“Why are you talking to me?” She lowered the ginger beer and shot him a nasty glare, to which he only shrugged.

“Maybe I wanted a drink too.” When she didn’t respond, except with a scowl, he moved around the counter and stepped right in front of the fridge, and right in front of her.

“Are you going to move?”

“Make me,” she growled, her face inches from his. He stared at her for a long moment, dark eyes poring into her own, then sighed.

“Fine.” He reached out, grabbed the door handle, and yanked it forward, sending her stumbling. By the time she recovered her balance, cursing all the while, he had already closed the door, his own ginger beer clutched in his grasp.

He waved it in front of her, waggling his eyebrows. “Thank you.”

“Shut up,” she snarled, but her head was spinning too much to attempt to steal it. Instead, she contented herself with working through her second.

It was her kitchen, she decided stubbornly. If anybody was going to retreat, it would be the Master.

Not to mention, a slightly-more sober part of her mind piped up, should the Master get as drunk as she, she might stand a chance of getting some information out of him. Not the most ingenious plan, as plans went, but surprisingly coherent considering her inebriation. 

So she sipped her ginger beer, more slowly this time, and watched as he studiously ignored her to drink his own.

“You could go drink somewhere else,” she tossed out a few minutes in, if only because she couldn’t resist aggravating him.

“Not the type to drink alone.” He raised his can, and an eyebrow along with it. “Unlike some sad souls.”

She huffed in irritation, and fell into a petulant silence, watching as he slowly finished his ginger beer. 

“Not going to have another?” she asked as he stood and deposited his can into the recycling. Slowly, he turned to face her.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” he asked. A smile twitched at his face, though she couldn’t think why. Somehow, it only irritated her further.

“No, I just think you’re a wimp,” she responded, and just to prove herself the opposite, finished her second in one long draft. The Master stared at her, his expression unreadable, then slowly reached over to open the fridge door. She watched in hazy victory as he pulled out another can, popped it open, and raised it to his lips.

“Satisfied?” he asked after a long sip. Immediately, she shook her head.

“Not until you finish it,” she replied, noting with some surprise the sloshed off edges of her own words. The thought reminded her that she had finished her own ginger beer, but she didn’t rise to get another. Her thoughts were already plenty foggy; she needed to preserve some clarity if she wanted to question him. 

His eyes narrowed at her response, but he raised the can again and took another swig, this one longer than the first, before lowering it.

“You _are_ trying to get me drunk,” he said. She shrugged, trying to be nonchalant, only to realize that she was too far gone to pull it off.

“Maybe,” she replied instead, forcing a challenge into her voice. “What are you going to do about it?”

He stared at her for a long minute, frowning, then without a word, reached into the fridge and withdrew another can. He crossed the kitchen, then plunked it down in front of her.

She stared at it. “I don’t have to drink that.”

“Fine.” He shrugged, then turned to the sink, ginger beer half extended as if to pour.

“Wait—!”

He paused.

“Fine,” she glowered. “I’ll drink it. After you finish that one. If I’m drinking three, you are too.”

His jaw tightened. He stared at her, waiting for her to back down, but she only returned his gaze with equal determination until at last, with a sigh, he threw back his head and finished the rest of his can, then turned to the fridge and got another one.

“Happy?”

“No,” she said, but she reached out to curl her fingers around her own, letting the condensation soak into her fingers.

He shook his head as he turned back from the fridge, can clasped in his hand. “You really never are. Do you enjoy that? Not being happy?”

“Do you enjoy ruling the universe?” she shot back. It wasn’t the question she wanted to ask, but it jumped off her tongue too easily to be taken back.

“Sometimes,” he answered, and paused, taking a measured sip of his beer. “And sometimes not. It’s hard work, you know. If you actually do it right.”

She tossed him a look of faux surprise. “You mean you don’t kill everybody who displeases you? Funny, I really thought that’d be your style. Considering how often you embraced chaos.”

He shrugged. “Tried that. Didn’t really work. The Time Lords don’t like it when you seed discontent, apparently.”

“So you play by mommy and daddy’s rules now?” she retorted. “What happened to ultimate destruction?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Did that a couple of times. Razed a few planets. And you know what I found?”

She stared, at him, caught off-guard. Maybe because she hadn’t expected him to admit it—not when he was playing so nice. “What?”

“Once you raze a planet, you can’t put it back together.” He smiled ruefully. “And force, while effective, isn’t always the intelligent way to rule.”

“So you gave up on it?” she asked in disbelief. “Just like that? After all those times you tried to kill me, and my friends, to take over planets—you decided it wasn’t your bag?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The Master’s hands shot up, droplets of ginger beer flying. “I didn’t say that! Trust me, Doctor, chaos is a wonderful thing.” He smiled, grin stretching wide across broad teeth. “But there are other ways to sow it.”

“Like how?” she asked. “Playing by the book? Being boring?” All of this was wrong, none of this was the what she wanted to ask, but she was veering down a path she couldn’t control. “I can’t believe you. You’ve gone tame.”

Immediately, the smile vanished from the Master’s face. His lips dropped, and his eyes grew dark.

“I wouldn’t say that, Doctor.” His eyes ran up and down her form, and he snorted. “I mean, look at you. Call me tame, you’re nothing but a drunk.”

“Oh, yeah.” For lack of a better response, she sneered at him, one hand raising her ginger beer to her mouth. “Sure. You can insult me all you like. I know what I did, and I stand by it. Besides—” she pointed a weaving finger at him— “at least I’m not a willing pawn for the High Council.”

“You’re no less of a pawn than me,” the Master replied, unperturbed. “At least I know where I stand on things, Doctor. You’re not even standing.”

The Doctor stared at him, hazy confusion slipping through her thoughts. “Where you stand on what?”

The Master paused, mouth slightly open, then shut it again and gave a small shake of his head.

“Oh no,” he said, and wagged a finger at her. It was, the Doctor noticed with some satisfaction, rather wobbly. “Sorry, Theta. You don’t get to cross examine me.” His eyes roamed over her, and then they abruptly narrowed. “Not with what you’ve been doing here. If you’ve been doing anything at all.”

“What?” His eyes were knowing, only she couldn’t tell for what. “What are you talking about?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Only gazed at her, eyes sharp and scrutinizing, as if he were trying to dig out some information she wasn’t privy to.

The he dropped his gaze, and mumbled into his beer, “nothing, apparently.”

“Huh.” She stared at him, and when he didn’t offer an explanation, sniffed. “You’re not making sense.”

He scoffed. “Like you ever do.”

“More than you.” They were devolving, she could feel it, tumbling down a drunken slippery slope, and no end in sight. She glared at him, for lack of a better idea of what to do, then raised her can and finished off the last of her ginger beer. Then, she pushed back her stool and rose clumsily to her feet.

“I’m going to bed.”

“What?” He looked up in surprise, and his eyes moved to the empty can on the counter. He stared at it, then gave a smug grin. “So you’re tapping out?”

Bed called, but even so, caught under the accusation, she hesitated. “I finished mine,” she said, “and you’re slow. Besides, I don’t really like talking to you.”

Once she had. Once, when they were just children, they used to talk for hours. And once, seventy years ago in the middle of the night in an old library, they had talked, and it had felt almost normal.

But that wasn’t today.

The Master frowned, then, before she could decide, tipped back his head and drained the last of his beer, then opened the fridge and drew out two more.

“Here.” He plunked one down on the counter, then opened his own. “Since you think I’m so slow.”

She stared at it. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Why not?” He popped open his can and tilted his head, something both woeful and accusatory in his eyes. As if he knew she was going to hurt him, and was just waiting for the moment. “Scared?”

“Not of you,” she snapped, and against her better judgment, reached out to snag the ginger beer. She pulled it open and drained half of it in one go, desperate to be done. 

She wasn’t going to do this. This wasn’t their childhood, and they weren’t friends. A few sweet memories could never make up for the years of bloodshed that stood between them.

He finished his quickly as well, then set his can on the counter with a clatter, before stilling it with one hand. He looked at her, eyebrow raised in challenge.

“Are you done?”

She didn’t need to do this. She had nothing to prove. She glared at him, and opened her mouth to refute.

“No.”

So much for better choices.

————

Several drinks later, the Doctor’s arm had somehow found its way around the Master’s shoulders, because the bloody lump couldn’t seem to make it back to his bedroom on his own.

“Tired,” he mumbled into her shoulder, and she gritted her teeth.

“I hate you,” she told him, just to make it clear. He only grumbled something she couldn’t hear. “And I’m going to stop whatever it is you’re doing.”

She could feel the low rumble of his laughter into her shoulder. “M’luck with that.”

“I _hate_ you.”

It was hard enough with her own weaving feet and lack of balance, but eventually, she managed to locate the Master’s room and get him through the doorway and into the bed. He flopped upon it like a fish, and she watched him go limp with a surge of annoyance both strong and familiar.

Lying like this, he didn’t look nearly so powerful. Only like a drunken fool, or even worse, like the friend he’d once been long ago. Not like the person who had tried for so long to wrench control from the hands of billions, to drench the universe in blood.

It was almost funny, she thought with a bleary surge of misery, that he had so long yearned for such a goal, and she had been the one to fulfill it.

She wondered what the difference between them now was, and though her reasoning still held, it seemed weak and faded in the darkness.

“I hate you,” she said once more, just to fill the quiet, then turned to go, only for a noise to stop her at the door. It took her a moment to place it; then she turned around.

The Master, already sunken deep into unconsciousness, twitched and flinched, his face screwed up in an expression she’d never seen in sleep, but worn enough times. Agony and fear played across his expression, and she didn’t need to ask to know that he was dreaming about the war.

For a moment, the irrational urge to wake him rose up in her, but she tamped it down immediately. Instead, she turned to go, closing the door behind her.


	21. Chapter 21

They didn’t talk about that night. Not that there was anything to talk about. As far as the Doctor was concerned, one night of drinking between friends turned enemies could be consigned to the embarrassment of the midnight hours. Instead, when they woke up the next morning, they stayed out of each others’ way, and continued to do so, until the awkwardness of the situation faded into the constant, low-level irritation that came with actually having to live together.

Weeks passed, and the Doctor spent as much time as she could out of the house. She visited the Sinclairs, came for tea and lunch and everything in between, and even, on one memorable occasion, toured Yaz’s flat and met her mother.

In the meantime, she did her research. Read the news, both that on Earth and that of the quadrant, and used her big, rather rusty brain, to absorb as much of it as possible. Tried to paint a picture of the world she had lived in for seventy years, but only just now started to sit up and pay attention to.

It wasn’t a pretty picture. That was the first thing she discovered. The Time Lords, in their expansion across the universe, had more or less dug out every nook and cranny and claimed it as their own. Though she’d known that in a distant, passing way—it was she, after all, who had rallied the troops around the idea—seeing it up close was different, and stomach churning. Because while Earth floated relatively free under the Doctor’s lackadaisical rule, the rest of the universe stayed caught in the tight, claustrophobic grip of the Time Lords’.

She hated it.

But there wasn’t much she could do about it. So she read the news, seethed privately against the unfairness of it all, and watched the Master from a distance, trying to gauge his plans, though she didn’t get very far. It was difficult work, when their paths rarely crossed. The Master either stayed cooped up in his TARDIS, doing work she couldn’t guess at, or ventured into Sheffield by way of Henry’s car, forcing the Doctor to call a cab whenever she left. Following the drinking incident, they never opened another can of ginger beer together again, and they barely talked. It wasn’t worth it, not when every conversation devolved into insults and near-blows.

So the Doctor, stuck at a crossroads, stayed there for several weeks, and only found her way out when Ryan happened to come back from work one day.

It was by utter chance, the kind she might have missed on any other afternoon. Though by this point, she usually stayed for tea, she often missed the youngest of the Sinclairs due to his long and grueling hours at the new factory in town. On the rare occasions when their paths did cross, Ryan usually only had the strength to muster a few tired sentences before retiring to his room, to play video games or pass out.

“That’s all he does,” Graham commented one day, shaking his head, as he helped Grace and the Doctor set the table for tea. By now, with so many visits under her belt, the Doctor had long since been recruited into the meal-making process. “He sleeps, grabs a meal, and goes to work. It’s got to be unhealthy.”

The Doctor glanced at Grace, expecting her to disagree. She usually made a point to stick up for Ryan, she’d learned, even if the Doctor could tell by the worried crinkle in her brow that she didn’t always like his hours. 

But this time, she only pursed her lips and gave a small shake of her head.

“I know what you mean,” she said, and cast a worried glance to the door, through which Ryan was meant to arrive. “I am glad he’s working hard, don’t get me wrong. But—”

“It’s a lot,” Graham agreed, and the Doctor, looking between them, wondered if she should add her own two cents—she could easily, if necessary, calculate the maximum amount of hours a human need work in a week—but before she could, the door opened and Ryan’s voice rang out.

“Please tell me there’s food!”

Immediately, Graham and Grace straightened as if nothing had happened. The Doctor mirrored their movements, unsure if she was meant to mention the conversation but deciding to play it safe. She wasn’t always good at picking up the complex and dynamic social cues that humans clung to, but her new friends were good instructors.

“There is, dear,” Grace called. “We’re just sitting down.”

“Great.” Ryan appeared a moment later, looking wan and worn out. “I’m exhausted.”

“I bet you are,” Graham said, only to wince under Grace’s severe look. Ryan, however, didn’t seem to notice. He slid into a seat on the opposite side of the table, so the Doctor slid into hers as well, followed quickly by Grace and Graham.

“How was work, love?” Grace asked as they delved into their food. Ryan, fork halfway to his mouth, gave a good natured roll of his eyes.

“You know I can’t tell you, nan.” He shoved a forkful of food into his mouth, and spoke as he chewed. “Non-disclosure agreement, remember?”

“Well, you could tell us something,” Graham chimed in, an edge of force in his tone. Worry too, enough to make the Doctor wonder. “I mean, with those hours you pull, you’d think—”

“I can tell you it was hard.” Ryan swallowed, then reached out to nab a piece of bread. The Doctor watched him, content in her observations. She couldn’t help but feel that there was some family drama going on, something she played no part in. Curiosity nagged at her, but she dimmed it. 

Sometimes, it wasn’t worth digging. 

Beside Ryan, Graham snorted. “Is that all? We can tell it’s hard, son, we want to know what you’re actually doing.”

“Graham.” Grace’s voice held a warning note. “You know he can’t tell us.”

“Yeah.” Ryan spoked around a mouthful of bread. “Besides, it’s not that interesting. Mostly moving stuff around.”

“Yeah, but—” Graham began, only to stop at Grace’s hard look. He paused, mouth open, then shut it and leaned back in his chair. “Alright, alright. It just seems a little odd to me, you know? I mean here we are, Ryan breaking his back for this factory, and we still ain’t seeing any contribution to the community!”

“It’s a job creator, dear,” Grace said, but the Doctor was looking at Graham with interest.

“What do you mean, no contribution?”

Graham waved a disgruntled hand. “Well, you know. If a big chain moves in, it creates jobs and everything, but you also expect to see things, right? You build a shop, you expect it to be open to the public. You have a factory, you want to know what it’s producing. But this place—”

“It’s just government mandated, Graham,” Ryan said with a shrug as he reached for another piece of bread. “It’s not a normal factory. Besides, I told you, it’s not that interesting.”

Not a normal factory. Something chilled in the Doctor’s chest. 

“What do you mean, government mandated?” she leaned forward, food forgotten, fingers digging into her trousers.

Graham snorted. “Means they won’t tell us what they’re doing there.” He shook his head in disgust. “It’s weapons, I’ll bet. My bus driver buddies—”

“Oh my _god_ , not this again!” Ryan straightened in his chair, cutting him off. “Look, it’s not weapons, okay! At least, I don’t think it is. It’s just—” he trailed off, then gave another shrug. “I dunno. Boring, mostly.”

The Doctor looked between him and Graham, her hearts pounding hard in her chest. “Ryan,” she said slowly, “what’s the name of this company? If it’s government mandated.”

Ryan looked at her, half-curious at her interest, but clearly not enough to ask about it. “M. LTD.” He frowned, nose crinkling. “Weird name, you ask me. I mean, who just chooses a letter?”

The Doctor sat back in her chair, hearts thumping hard against her ribcage. “I don’t know,” she said, but the words had no meaning to them, and they dropped from her lips like stones. Because she did know, and she had been an idiot not to see it. An idiot not to ask the questions where she should have asked them, rather than waiting for the Master to slip up.

Ryan was working at the Master’s own personal factory. Which meant—

“Quit your job.” The words were out before she could stop them. A moment later, when she looked up, it was to be met by three baffled faces.

“What?” Grace said. Ryan was slowly shaking his head.

“Mate,” he said, “no offense, but this is the best pay I’ve gotten in years.”

The Doctor stared at him, stomach churning, hearts pounding. “Yeah, but—” she said, then stopped. Because what was there to say? How could she convince him of the Master’s trickery, when she herself didn’t know what he was up to?

Maybe, before she take further action, she ought to figure that out.

“Kidding,” she said, and smiled weakly. Three faces stared at her, then, when she made an effort to busy herself with her food, slowly turned back to their own. 

“So, Graham,” Grace began, and when he responded, launched into some discussion about the plants on the windowsill, but the Doctor wasn’t listening. Instead, she was watching Ryan as he picked at his food and, for the first time in weeks, making a proper plan.

————

“Ryan,” she hissed nearly an hour later, just as he stepped into the hallway. He paused, confused and, she noticed, looking as if he didn’t really have the patience to talk.

“Doctor?” Some of his confusion, she had to begrudgingly admit, was understandable. The Doctor often stayed with the main group, but Graham and Grace were in the kitchen taking care of dishes, and Ryan had excused himself to bed.

Only to be snagged at the bottom of the stairs by the Doctor.

“I need to talk to you,” she whispered, and watched his brow crinkle into a frown.

“Does it really have to be now?” His eyes moved longingly to the stairs. “I mean, I’m really tiedr…”

“Yes,” the Doctor answered, and before he could argue, stepped forward to grab his arm, dragging him fully into the hallway. “Listen. I need to visit your factory.”

“What?” Ryan drew back. “Uh, sorry, but I really can’t—”

“You can, because I’m the president of the world, and I have jurisdiction above any non-disclosure agreement you might have signed,” she responded before he could finish. When he only stared at her, stunned into silence, she sighed, sagging. “Listen, Ryan. I have reason to believe that the factory you’re working at is operating without my permission. I need to take a look, and I would prefer to do that without alerting whoever thinks they’re in charge.”

“But—” Ryan’s mouth worked uselessly as he realized that, whatever his protest, the Doctor could very well do what she liked. “I could lose my job!”

“And if you did, I’ll pay you out tomorrow,” she replied. “Ryan, this isn’t just about me. This is about the safety of the world. I need to know what’s going on in that factory.” She hesitated, then leaned in slightly, looking him straight in the eye.

“Do you think you can help me?”

Ryan stared at her for a long moment. Then he sighed, shoulders dropping.

“Yeah,” he said. “But—I don’t know, Doctor. How do you want to do this? I just—sneak you in?”

The Doctor thought about this for roughly two linear seconds. “Alright, this is how it’s going to go. When your shift ends, you stay behind to clean something up. Then, all you need to do is open the back door for me. I’ll be there. Cameras disabled, security down.” She still had her trusty sonic lying around somewhere, she was sure of it. “Easy as pie.”

“Sure.” From the look on Ryan’s face, he didn’t agree. Still, he didn’t argue. “When do you want to do it?”

“When’s your next shift?”

Ryan considered this, then sighed, raising a rueful hand to rub at his chin. “Tomorrow. But if that’s too early—”

“That’s perfect.” The sooner the better, as far she was concerned. “Let me know the time, and the address. And of course—”

“Don’t tell anybody?” He wore a pinched, worried expression, as if he were seriously rethinking, though it were far too late to do so. The Doctor nodded.

“Don’t tell anybody.” She grinned, a sudden, strange new feeling racing through her. No—not new. Old, so old she had nearly forgotten what it felt like. It had the taste of adrenaline and the feel of adventure, as if she were delving into a new, mysterious planet.

Rassilon, how she missed that feeling.

Ryan sighed, then stepped back, and cast another longing eye towards the stairs. “Alright. I’ll get you the address, and the time. Text it to you. But, uh, can I go to bed now?”

“What?” The Doctor stared at him, then glanced to the stairs. “Oh. Sure. Good night, Ryan.”

“Thanks.” Ryan turned, then, one foot poised over the first step, paused. “Uh, Doctor?”

“Hmmm?”

“Please don’t get me fired.”

The Doctor opened her mouth, then shut it again. Truth was, she couldn’t exactly promise anything. She wouldn’t be getting Ryan involved at all if she had the choice. But peril, at the hands of the Master, lay over all of their heads. The sooner she got to the bottom of his plans, the better.

“I won’t. Promise.”

“Thanks.” The relief in Ryan’s voice was clear. He nodded, and the Doctor watched him ascend the steps, a strange feeling in her chest. Protectiveness, maybe. Or perhaps simple worry.

She wasn’t good at keeping promises—she, of all people, knew that. But she was damn well going to try.

—————

She returned late that night, by cab rather than Henry, and stomped through the front door, shedding raindrops as she went.

Only to catch the Master almost immediately in the hallway.

“Oh. You.” For a moment, she considered ignoring him, but it was too late for that. The Master went out of his way to greet her whenever they crossed paths, and she knew this would be no exception.

It didn’t, however, mean that she actually wanted to talk to him.

“You.” He eyed her, a crease between his brow. “You were gone a long time.”

“What are you, my keeper?” She shrugged off her coat, wincing at the damp fabric, and hung it on the nearby coat rack. “You don’t need to know where I go.”

“Nor you, I.” He frowned as her coat dripped a steady puddle on the floor.

“I didn’t ask.”

“I assumed you would.”

“Well, you assumed wrong,” she snapped. “When are you going to get it through your thick skull that I don’t care what you get up to?”

He opened his mouth, then hesitated, and closed it again. Then, a smile spread across his face. “Is that why you’ve started keeping up with my quadrant?”

“How did you—” she recalled, only to remember that it had been his newsreader she had been borrowing. She glared at him, caught—not that it really mattered. Let him think that she was ten steps behind, while she slowly caught up. “Doesn’t matter. I just figured I should know what’s going on.”

“Does this mean you want to be more involved?” His tone was light, teasing even, but something shone beneath the words. He leaned forward slightly, the barest hint of excitement glimmering in his eyes. “Doctor, don’t tell me you’re taking an interest in the world around you.”

“I’m not,” she retorted, which wasn’t strictly true, but let him believe. She could feel the almost-offer dangling in the air, and there was no way she was about to pick it up.

Control, the way he wanted. Power, on his terms. Rule of a quadrant, maybe, but she would still be under his thumb. And to that, she would never agree.

He drew back, hard disappointment flashing across his face, but didn’t say anything. She waited for a moment, half expecting him to make some comment anyway, but when he didn’t, she supplied her own.

“I’m going to bed.” She ran a hand through damp hair, cringing slightly—that would be a mess on her pillow—then stepped past him, far enough apart that they wouldn’t touch.

“Goodnight, then.” She heard the rustle as he turned, heard the words, but didn’t respond.

Why bother? There wasn’t anything to say.

That night, when she woke up sweating from a horrible dream, pillow stained from both her wet hair and her tears, the ghost of a touch lingered on her arm, and her door was wide open.


	22. Chapter 22

At precisely six in the following evening, the Doctor stood in the shadows behind the large, ugly factory, cloaked in a dark coat and a hat meant to cover her face. She felt exceedingly silly with both accoutrements, but refused to take them off until she had at least disabled the cameras.

Her sonic felt awkward in her hand, and it took her longer than she should have to fumble with the controls, running through them by foggy memory until at last the device hummed, and she knew that every camera was down, along with all other security features. There might be guards, she knew, but at this hour, in this spot, the risk of meeting them was low. The factory, she had learned, ran 24/7, and while security guards patrolled the outside, they had no need to venture inside.

Besides, she would only be outside for another minute, should Ryan make good on his promise.

“Psst! Doctor!” The door cracked open an inch and the Doctor spun around, hat nearly flying from her head.

“Ryan!” She beamed, relief and excitement mingling. “You made it!”

“I’ve been here,” he hissed, and cast a nervous glance around the alleyway before opening the door wider. “Are you coming in or not?”

“’Course I am.” She stepped forward, adjusting her hat, and blinked as she came under the dim, gray light of the factory. “Grim place you got here.”

“I mean, it’s work.” Ryan shut the door behind her, then turned, a critical eye roaming over her outfit. “What are you wearing?”

The Doctor frowned, and glanced down at her dark coat and large brimmed hat. “What, this? It’s a disguise!”

Ryan stared at it for a long moment, then let out a low chuckle. “Alright, no. Take that off, and you can borrow one of my uniforms from the locker room.”

“You have a locker room?” The Doctor followed Ryan into the dully lit maze of the factory, trying in vain to discern something from the floor plan. Strange bits of machinery loomed over her heads, all of them, she was sure, unrecognizable to human eyes. To her, they looked like a strange amalgamation of alien equipment, their various origins spanning the entire galaxy, if not universe.

What, she wondered, was the Master possibly building?

“Yeah,” Ryan said as he weaved around various pieces of machinery, not even bothering to look around. “They’re specially treated for chemicals. Not sure what kind, but—” He trailed off with a shrug.

“Interesting.” She swallowed this bit of information and tucked it away for later, until after she had a good nose around the place.

“Is this where you work?” she whispered to Ryan, squinting through the dim light. “There’s nobody around.”

“No, this is where we store the equipment.” He found a door marked ‘men’ and pushed it open, then held out a hand to stop her. “Hang on. There might be people changing. Let me grab my uniform, then I’ll show you to the ladies’.”

She frowned, not entirely convinced of his argument, but the first part seemed sound, so she let it go. It took several impatient minutes for Ryan, after he disappeared, to reappear, this time outfitted in an orange jumpsuit, with another tucked under his arm.

“Thought I should blend in too,” he explained, handing over the folded uniform. “With any luck, they won’t recognize me from the earlier shift.”

“Smart thinking.” She nodded in approval, then looked to the men’s locker room, only to recall that she needed a different one. “Right. Where do I—”

“Over there.” Ryan pointed to a door just off to the left, and the Doctor followed his direction. She slipped inside, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t encounter anybody, and let out a sigh of relief when she met an empty locker room. Either the women had already finished changing, or there weren’t many women on the evening shift.

With humans, she could never tell which it might be.

It only took her a few minutes to change, and she stowed her coat and hat—she really did like the brim of it—regretfully into an open locker before rejoining Ryan, who was waiting patiently outside.

“Are you ready?” He straightened when he saw her, crossed arms falling to his sides. He looked nervous, she noticed, but determined. As if he had decided to see this through.

She would have to thank him later, she decided. Profusely.

“I am,” she whispered, and, when he nodded and turned, stepped forward to keep pace beside him. “Where are we going?”

Ryan shrugged. “Up to you. We can go first to where I work, and then, well—I dunno. What did you want to see?”

She swallowed. “Everything. ‘Least, everything you have access to.” Not that she wouldn’t be able to get access to the parts he didn’t. Though she had stowed her coat, she’d kept her sonic stowed in the fantastically deep pockets provided by the jumpsuit. 

“Sure.” Ryan frowned as they reached another door and paused, settling back on his heels. “This is where I work. Are you ready?”

The Doctor shot him a glance. “Are you?”

Ryan considered this for a long moment. Then, he just shook his head. “Honestly, I just can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Oh.” The Doctor didn’t particularly know how to respond to that. She decided to go with something she had seen in the movies—a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Well, you’re doing great.”

“Uh, thanks.” Ryan’s eyebrows rose at the gesture, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he only turned back to the door, then heaved a deep sigh, and pushed it open.

Immediately, they were met by the up-close sounds of machinery, the clanks and clangs of tools at work, and the shouts and grumble of conversation. Despite herself, the Doctor shrunk back.

It was loud. All of it, incredibly loud. She should have been expecting that, and yet—she hadn’t.

“You coming, Doctor?” Ryan took the lead, stepping through the door and holding it open for her to follow. The Doctor looked at him, then swallowed hard and nodded.

“’Course.” She stepped through, hiding the trembling of her hands in her pockets. Noises were something she hadn’t been able to stand since the war, but, having taken all the effort to sneak into the factory itself, she decided that she was just going to have to stand it. Machinery creaked and rumbled, and people shouted, sending her gut churning, but she ignored it.

She was fine.

“This is the section where I work,” Ryan called, voice slightly raised so as to be heard. Right by the door stood a stand, upon which sat several masks, and he grabbed two, then passed one to the Doctor. “Here—safety mask.”

The Doctor took it, nose wrinkling in displeasure, and placed it over her face. Immediately, hot claustrophobic air filled the small space in front of her, and the smell of leather, dust and sweat swamped her nose.

She was not going to like this.

“Let’s go,” she said, desperate to drag herself out of the sinking feeling in her gut. Once, she thought with a hint of frustration, she would have loved an adventure like this. She _did_ love an adventure like this. So why wasn’t she feeling it now?

Perhaps she was simply old. Or perhaps she was more battered and bruised from the war than she’d realized, even after so long drinking her problems away. 

“This looks pretty grim,” she called to Ryan as they moved through the rows of people, hard at work banging pieces of alien equipment into shape. “Do you know what you’re doing here?”

Ahead of her, Ryan shrugged. “Sort of. We’re working on the central machine, but I’m not part of that project. Too new.”

“What central machine?” she jogged to catch up to him, ignoring the accompanying wave of dizziness. She couldn’t tell if it was the rank air of the mask, or the feel of the place that had her feeling off, but the more she tried to fight it, the more it seemed to rise up with a vengeance. “Ryan—I want to see that.”

Though she couldn’t see Ryan’s face through the mask, she caught the hesitation in his gait. “Uh, I don’t know if I can get us in there.”

“I can.” She glanced around at the workers, all bent over their tasks, then leaned over to Ryan, voice dropping. “Do you realize you’re working on alien equipment?”

“I—what?” Ryan stopped, so suddenly she nearly tumbled into him, then turned around fully to face her. “What do you mean?”

The Doctor stared at him, caught in surprise. “Hang on—” she swept a hand towards a nearby row of clearly strange equipment. “How have you not noticed the oddness of this place? I mean, odd for humans. Haven’t you noticed that all the metal you’re working on looks like it’s from Mars?”

The Mars thing was an under-exaggeration—the metal was actually from a small planet halfway across the galaxy—but she saw Ryan look around, possibly for the first time taking in the odd, silvery gleam of the metal. “I thought—I thought it was just some special substance. Like carbon fiber, or something.” He spun back to the Doctor, the next words rising slightly in pitch with panic. “I didn’t think it was alien!”

“Hmmm.” She studied him, arms crossed. “I wonder if the rest of the workers are like you. Or if they’ve caught on.”

“I really hope not.” Ryan shifted, and though she couldn’t see his face, she could feel the embarrassment radiating off him. “Oh my days, if I’m the only one—”

“You probably aren’t.” Probably, she thought, because humans had little to no contact with alien races outside of the Doctor. Despite their dim knowledge of a whole wide universe out there, they had barely seen it. For a human, she thought, it might simply be easier to accept an Earth explanation than to look to the stars. “Besides, even if you were, I doubt you’d know it. I imagine they don’t approve of you lot sharing information.”

Ryan sagged. “Yeah, they don’t. Not like there’s enough time to talk on the clock, if I’m being honest.” He was still looking around, gazing in a clearly new light at the bits of machinery. “I thought some of that stuff looked odd, but I thought it was just secret government stuff. And I weren’t about to ask.”

“Probably best you didn’t.” The Doctor squinted around as well, forcing herself to think through another wave of nauseous dizziness. It was the mask, she decided with a hint of desperate annoyance. The mask, with its smell of leather and sweat, was turning both her stomach and head upside down. “Ryan—where’s this central machine?”

Ryan turned back to her, and she could sense the reluctance even before he said the words. “Doctor, are you sure—”

“I need to see it.” She cut him off with a stiff gaze that he probably couldn’t make out through her mask, but it didn’t matter. Her arms were crossed, her shoulders set, and it seemed to work; he took one look, then sighed.

“Alright.” He gave another glance around, clearly ill at ease, though she couldn’t tell if it was because of the revelation or what they were about to do. “Follow me, and try to look like you belong here.”

“Oi, I’m brilliant at belonging,” she said crossly, but fell into pace behind him as they moved through the factory floor, dodging workers and pieces of machinery. At the other end sat a door marked ‘qualified employees only’ and he was clearly heading for it.

“Doctor,” he called softly over his shoulder as they weaved their way across the factory floor. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” She broke into a jog to catch up with his long stride, then fell into pace behind him. “What’s your trouble?”

“This place.” His voice dropped low, so low she had to strain to catch it. “And us using alien parts. Is that bad?”

“Uh—” She drew back, surprised. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting to hear, but Ryan’s question caught her off-guard. For a moment, she didn’t answer.

Was it bad? Instinct and experience said yes. The fact that the Master seemed to be involved only strengthened her gut instinct. But then, Ryan couldn’t have known that he would be getting involved with what might possibly be a plan to take over the Earth—or something worse. And though she ought to tell him the truth, he was still her friend, and she wanted to soften the blow.

“I’m not sure,” she said carefully. “It’s not black and white. Using artifacts from alien cultures isn’t instantly a bad thing. It depends on how they were acquired, and what you’re doing with them. Once I see that central machine—”

“You’ll be able to know?” Ryan said, voice both anxious and eager. He glanced at her, before looking back to the door now looming ahead of them. Around the factory, nobody had yet to pay them notice, which the Doctor could only think to be a good thing, despite the uneasy feeling in her gut.

“I think I will,” she confirmed as they approached the door. She was starting to lag behind despite her best efforts, haziness seeping into her vision and nausea rising.

But she was not about to puke in her mask. So she swallowed the feeling and stiffened her shoulders, forcing herself to catch up.

Ryan reached the door first, then stopped, casting a nervous look around.

“Did you say you knew how to get inside?” he whispered, eyes scanning the room as if waiting for somebody to notice. For answer, the Doctor reached into her pocket to fish out her sonic.

“Number one rule,” she told him, drawing out the device and holding it up, “is to always have a proper screwdriver on hand.”

“What?” Ryan drew back, confused. “How’s that supposed to help?”

Despite her nausea, despite her now viciously spinning head, the Doctor forced a grin she didn’t feel and knew he couldn’t see, and pointed the sonic at the door. “Like this.”

The sonic buzzed; the lock clicked open. Ryan stared, surprise radiating off him, as the Doctor, with a small flourish, tucked the sonic back into her pocket and pushed open the door.

“Easy as pie,” she said, with a jaunty step inside. “Just like I—whoa!”

The moment she stepped into the cavernous room, she caught sight of an enormous, glowing spire, ringed by a chain link shield, and nothing more. She didn’t even have time to look around. Like a large wave, irresistible in its pull, vertigo took her by the head and sunk her under, spiraling.

“Doctor!” She didn’t even realize she was falling until Ryan caught her. Distantly, she could feel her body, limp and helpless in his arms, but more closely, she felt nothing but blackness, her entire world cycling slowly around her.

“Oow…” It didn’t exactly hurt, but it felt like it. Pressure descended upon her eyelids, popping bursts of color against the black, and when she lifted a hand to press a palm to her eyes, she hit her nose instead.

Ten feet removed from her body, it felt like, and she floundered.

“Oh my god, I think you just fainted,” Ryan’s panic voice came, both too close and distant all at once. “Doctor, are you okay?”

“M’fine,” she muttered, but she wasn’t, and she didn’t know how to tell him that. Her entire body was unwinding, her hearts pounding, the blood pushing through her ears, and she couldn’t breathe. “Ryan—m’listen. S’important.”

“Yeah, of course.” Ryan was hoisting her up, forcing her to balance on two feet, but it wasn’t quite working. She stumbled and looked up, and for just a moment caught the image of that enormous spire before her, the image both frustratingly close and incredibly distant, weaving in and out of focus.

She blinked one, twice, and just before her eyelids slid shut, she got a glimpse of elegant Gallifreyan, marching up the side.

“Get—us out,” she managed to say, and nothing more, before her knees gave way and her vision rushed into darkness.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not me forgetting to update for like 3 months
> 
> im literally the worst ALSO i forgot i left it like that rip

Her vision sparked and stuttered. Flashes popped and faded, blurry images rushing by.

“She’s sick,” she heard Ryan explain as they scrambled past workers, back to the locker rooms. “Came to work with the flu.”

She didn’t hear much more. Eventually, bursts of consciousness stopped coming, and only blackness reigned.

When she woke up, she was on Gallifrey.

The sun was beating down. The plains around her stretched large and empty, the wind whipping dust into small cyclones. The sand beneath her bare feet itched and pricked at her toes.

She flattened a hand over her eyes and squinted, first up at the sky and then around the landscape, turning on her heel, only to stop. Slowly, she lowered her hand.

Just behind her squatted a barn, the wood weathered and worn, the door hanging open, the inside matted with dirt and smelling strongly of straw. As she stood there, stunned, a gust of wind swept through, rustling her hair and whistling through the cracks of the rickety walls before her.

She did the only thing she could think to do, and stepped inside.

“Hello?” she called softly, though she knew instinctively that there would be nobody to answer. The entire scene had the air of a dream, but the place flooded all five of her senses with such overwhelming vividness that she couldn’t help but doubt that theory.

“Hello?” she called again as she stepped through the threshold, but one look told her that she was correct. The barn was empty, not even a bed to sleep upon. It stood exactly as she had seen it seventy years before, when she had activated the Moment and changed the universe forever.

A chill ran through her, and without thinking, she hugged her chest.

“What am I doing here?” she whispered, more to herself than anybody else. “Why did I wake up here?”

“Do you really waste your time on questions that can’t be answered?”

The Doctor spun around, hair flying, hearts slamming against her chest. She truly hadn’t expected anybody to be there, but the moment she laid eyes on the interloper, she knew it couldn’t be anybody else.

“Oh.” Her hearts pounded, her ears rang. Still, she forced herself to speak, though he was the last person she wanted to talk to. “You.”

He grinned, though there was nothing happy about it. He wore a weathered face, a scruffy beard, and a leather jacket, the sort of jaded things, she thought, that one might pick up as good fashion in a war. Not that she could hold the higher ground. She glanced down at herself, expecting an orange jumpsuit, and instead found her usual outfit; a rainbow shirt and trousers she had gotten done too short by accident several years back, and never bothered to fix.

“I suppose I know who you are,” he said, his weak grin reaching nearly to his ears. It was held in place as if by any moment it might slip away for lack of effort. “You’re me. Well—” He let out a soft chuckle, and shook his head. “You’re you.”

“Suppose I am.” She frowned, feeling quite suddenly as if there were some joke she ought to be getting. “Gotta say, I didn’t expect to meet my own self here. It’s a bit late for that.”

“Is it?” His smile dropped, then he lifted his chin slightly, his gaze moving past her shoulder. She turned to follow, and her hearts fell like stones.

Upon the ground sat the Moment, open, and clearly used. She stared at it for several seconds, hearts thumping an arrhythmic beat, then turned back to her former self.

“Why am I here?” she asked. Panic was curling slowly in her stomach, twining through her ribcage. “And why are you here? How can you be here? The Moment is done. You died.”

He didn’t answer any of her questions. Instead he nodded slowly and rocked back on his heels, considering. “You’re probably right. You know, I don’t remember that.” He frowned, then gave a small shake of his head, as if brushing off the memory. “Then, you might be mistaken. Because I don’t think I’m you, anymore.”

“What?” She stared at him, uncomprehending. “Then what are you?”

He didn’t immediately answer. He only gazed at her with sad eyes, then pointed his chin once more over her shoulder.

“I think I’m that.”

“What?” She twisted around, but never quite made it. The barn was starting to fade around her, incredibly fast, and when she spun back to the front, her former self was gone. So too was the world around, her spiraling out of existence, and when she reached out to grasp it, she realized she was fading as well.

“No!” she called, but nobody answered, and even her voice whisked away on the wind. “No!”

“Doctor?”

“No—” She was crying out now, thrashing against something heavy on her chest, her arms, desperate— “No!”

“Doctor!”

A familiar voice cut through her panic, and then there were hands on her shoulders, holding her steady despite her best attempts to break free. She struggled for a moment, then a moment more, then consciousness settled back in, and it occurred to her that she was waking up.

Slowly, almost fearfully, she opened her eyes.

She wasn’t on Gallifrey. The only sun visible shone weakly through the slats in the blinds of the far window. She was on a sofa, she realized a moment later, and the warm hands on her shoulders belonged to Grace.

“Grace,” she said, but the word became mush in her mouth. Grace smiled, though worry still sparked in her eyes.

“Almost got there, love,” she said, and, now apparently certain that the Doctor was awake, removed her hands and straightened. “Are you alright?”

“Mmmm.” The Doctor blinked, forcing away bleary sleep and the dregs of fear. “M’—where am I?”

“You’re at our place.” There came footsteps, and then Ryan appeared at Grace’s shoulder, brow creased in worry. His eyes ran over the Doctor, and then he relaxed slightly, rocking onto his heels and shaking his head. “Mate—you really took one to the head.”

“Did I?” the Doctor mumbled, bringing one hand up to press to her forehead. She didn’t feel a bruise. “I don’t remember getting hit.”

Ryan laughed, though the worry didn’t quite leave his eyes. “No, I mean—when we were out.” He cast a glance to Grace, who frowned but didn’t press the issue. “You passed out, remember, Doctor? Just like that.” He was watching her anxiously, as if waiting for her to refute, or perhaps give them away.

But the Doctor, even in her half-awake state, knew enough not to let on.

“Oh yeah.” She frowned, as if trying to recall why—though it wasn’t as if she knew. All she remembered was that image of the spire, glowing golden, Gallifreyan writing etched along the sides. “I must have had—uh—”

She paused carefully, waiting for Grace to pick up the implication she was trying to lay down. A panic attack among humans wouldn’t yield the same effect as the Doctor had experienced, but she knew that Grace was aware of her history. Panic attacks—or at least, her own—looked different on the Doctor. Sometimes memories, strengthened by the force of her telepathic abilities, could send her into a spiral of panic that didn’t end until she reached unconsciousness. 

This hadn’t been that, she was sure of it. She only hoped that Grace would think it was.

Grace eyed her for a long moment, then nodded, lips still pressed flat together. “I see. Ryan, can you get the Doctor some tea?”

“Uh, yes, nan.” Ryan hurried off, shooting the Doctor one more anxious look. She could only return it with a weak smile, then sag back onto the pillows, head still spinning. She felt as if she’d just been tossed down a very large hill, with no cushioning at the bottom.

Grace waited until Ryan was gone, then propped herself on the arm of the sofa, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Okay, you can be honest with me.” Her voice brooked no argument. “Was it a panic attack?”

The Doctor closed her eyes, and briefly considered the ramifications of the lie she was about to give. She’d never been one to shy away from falsehoods, but when faced with her friends, she hated the feel of them on her tongue.

But Ryan was already in danger thanks to her ineptitude. She couldn’t put the others in danger as well.

“Yes,” she admitted, the word rolling easily from her tongue. “I’m sorry, Grace. I was coming down to visit, and I thought I’d take a walk around Sheffield. Ran into Ryan, but it just—it just—” she paused, as something occurred to her, and glanced down at her clothes, but she was no longer wearing the orange jumpsuit. Only the trousers and t-shirt she hadn’t bothered to remove in the first place.

Clearly, Ryan was good in a panic.

“It happens, love.” When the Doctor didn’t answer, Grace laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. Though the Doctor’s first instinct was to draw away, this time, she didn’t. Instead she nodded, though she couldn’t help a hint of guilt from creeping across her face. 

“I’m sorry,” she said again, just to make it clear, then hesitated as another thought occurred to her. “Hang on. How long have I been here?”

Grace’s lips quirked in amusement. “It’s only the next morning. You were unconscious when you got here, and you’ve been out until—” she lifted a hand to check her watch— “about now, seven thirty-two A.M. Just a night missed.”

A night. Sudden dread overtook the Doctor, and she struggled into a sitting position, panic sparking.

“A whole night.” The blankets, tangled around her, were not only too warm, but made it impossible to escape. “But I never—”

“Went home?” Grace raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “Dear, no offense, but I know how little you get up to. I hardly doubt the world stopped running.”

“No, you don’t understand—” The Master would be looking. She knew this instinctively, just as she knew that he would be suspicious, that he would be investigating the broken cameras she didn’t have time to set right and the mysterious worker who had run home sick. She had ruined everything with a bout of dizziness, and now she could only cover her tracks as best she could.

“Wait.” Grace drew back, understanding sparking. “Is this about your friend?”

“Uh—” The Doctor paused. Friend was one word, she thought bitterly. She could think of a few others that might fit him better. “Maybe?”

“Oh.” Abruptly, a relieved smile broke out over Grace’s face. “You don’t have to worry about that, then. Graham called him an hour ago. He said he’d be over as soon as possible.”

“What?” The Doctor froze, face paling. It must have been evidence, her sudden loss of color, because Grace’s smile immediately dropped.

“Did you not want us to call?”

“I—” The answer was ‘of course’, but she didn’t get to say it, for just then, the doorbell rang.

Grace looked to the hallway entrance, frowning. All of a sudden, probably thanks to the Doctor’s reaction, she didn’t seem so certain. “Must be him.”

“Must be,” the Doctor echoed. Her lips moved numbly, barely mouthing the words. “Grace, thank you, but I think I can—”

And then she heard Graham’s cheerful greeting, echoing from the hallway, accompanied immediately by a second, horribly familiar voice.

“Yes, I was incredibly worried.” The Master’s smooth tones reached the Doctor’s ears, and she blanched.

Too late. 

She could only watch, dread and that familiar anger rising in her gut as Graham beckoned the Master into the living room. He was, as usual, immaculately dressed, right down to his stupid purple socks, and as he stepped over the threshold, he gave Grace a polite nod, before his eyes found the Doctor’s.

Something unreadable flashed across his face, so fast she nearly missed it, and then it was gone, shuffled away into a careful smile.

“Hello, love.” He tilted his chin, and his eyes roamed over her slept-in clothes, the hair falling in her face. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she said, lacing far too much venom into her voice to maintain any semblance of appearances. The Master frowned at her response, but didn’t rise to it. Still, the Doctor knew that it hadn’t gone unnoticed. She could feel Grace’s eyes upon her, worry glimmering deep within. “You didn’t need to come, you know.”

“What?” His eyes widened in mock surprise. Hurt, almost, if she wasn’t imagining. “I would never. I was worried the whole night.”

“Were you?” She raised an eyebrow, unable to resist a retort, even though everything inside her screamed to play it cool. She couldn’t let on to her friends, couldn’t let them worry, but— “You really don’t look it.”

He glanced down at his suit, and to her surprise, grimaced. “I was already dressed when I got the call.” He looked at her, then smiled, and this one was entirely teasing, no teeth to speak of. “Next time, I’ll wear a t-shirt.”

“There won’t be a next time,” she responded automatically, then glanced to Graham and Grace, both watching the two of them carefully. How must they look, she wondered, to her human friends? Were they even passing for normalcy, or did the tension held between them sluice off like water over a ledge? Somehow, she couldn’t imagine it not. It felt far too obvious, even to her. 

“And I can go now,” she added in the wake of her own words, before silence could truly permeate. She dreaded the idea that Graham, ever the host, might invite the Master for tea. At least Grace, with her increasingly crinkled brow, appeared suspicious. “Here. Let me—”

She shoved her blankets away from her, and as Grace stepped away, levered herself off of her pillows, and onto her feet.

And immediately fell forward. Dizziness surged, the ground rushed forward, and she knew immediately that she was about to look a fool. Grace went for her, but she didn’t make it. Instead, strong arms caught the Doctor, with such surety that it took her a moment to realize who they belonged to.

The Master. She tensed, her first instinct to twist away, only to realize that she couldn’t do that in front of her friends. So she forced herself to stay calm, even as her body remained stiff in his arms, then brought up a hand and used his arm as a crutch to push herself upwards.

“I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth. In response, he only laughed. 

“You sure look it.”

“Really,” she hissed, at last managing to shove herself into a standing position. She weaved, head swimming, only for the Master’s arm to appear before her, proffered.

“Just want to help,” he said mildly when she looked up. She stared at his face for a long moment, trying to piece his plan together, then reached out and took it.

Humiliation was his goal. That she was sure of, for she could feel it coursing through her, setting her whole face on fire. He hadn’t planned this, she knew, but he had surely taken advantage of it. She could feel Graham and Grace’s eyes upon her, but she couldn’t bear the idea of looking them in the face. So she kept her head down, one hand digging a death grip into the Master’s shoulder, as they inched slowly towards the door. 

Henry was waiting for them outside. The Master, to her utter horror, insisted on helping her into the car before sliding inside himself, and shooting her a grin.

“I hate you,” she whispered furiously, ignoring the odd look she caught from Henry in the rearview mirror. “You didn’t have to pick me up.”

“They called me.” His grin never left his face as he lounged against the backseat, taking up far too much space. She retaliated, jutting her legs out to take up as much space as she could, and continued to glare. “I wasn’t going to just leave you there.”

“Isn’t that what you would have wanted?” she hissed, forcing her voice low though she longed to yell. “Me out of the way, and you in charge of Earth? Would have been awfully convenient.”

He shrugged, and splayed his fingers in front of his face in a movement so reminiscent of Missy it twisted something right through her gut. “Until they started wondering where you were. Much as I may want to, I can’t get rid of you forever.”

“So you play nice.” She watched him, bristling, as he continued to examine his fingernails, unperturbed. “You pretend we’re—what? Friends? Partners? Coworkers?”

He finished inspecting his nails and glanced at her, hand curling into a fist. “What do you want to be?”

“None of that,” she retorted. “What I don’t get is why you keep forcing it. Why can’t you just leave me be?”

He looked up at her then, and stayed looking at her for a very long time, gaze somehow entirely open and utterly shuttered. As if he had secrets, and they both knew it, but he wasn’t about to tell her. As if, by virtue of a shared look, he was telling her all he wouldn’t say in words.

And yet he wasn’t saying anything at all. Not even telepathically, though she’d long since closed herself off to any contact not initiated by herself.

“Use your words,” she snapped, when she couldn’t bear it anymore. “Don’t look at me like I can read your mind. You know I don’t bother with that.”

He frowned. “Not even through touch?”

“Not my bag,” she returned. “Now, what is it you’re so desperate to let me in on?”

He sucked in a breath, watching her, then let it out, nostrils flaring. “If you’re going to be like that, you don’t deserve to know. We’re in this together, Doctor, whether you like it or not, but you’re as in it as you choose to be. I won’t offer you anything more.”

The Doctor stared at him, torn between confusion and frustration. To make things worse, her head was starting to swim again, the aftereffects of whatever she had experienced lingering on. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The Master cocked his head, and studied her. “It means you’re a coward,” he said at last. “And you only care about yourself. Well, yourself, and a race so insignificant I could pinch them out like a candle flame and nobody would notice.” A grin stretched across his face, but this time it was hard and bore no mirth. “It’s about time you wake up, Doctor. The universe is waiting.”

“You and your offers of power,” she said irritably. “Don’t you understand that I’m not going to fall for it? I don’t care what you think of me. I won’t work for the Time Lords, and I’m not going to work for you.”

His mouth twisted, smile dropping. “Fine,” he spat. “Try clawing your own way out. You won’t get very far without me.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, but before he only gave a small, tight smile, and shook his head slightly. She opened her mouth to ask him again, this time more forcibly, but before she could, the car heaved to a halt.

“Here you go, sir and madam.” Henry tipped his hat, though his eyes followed them nervously as they climbed out of the car, the Doctor reluctantly using the Master’s arm as a clutch once more. She tried to balance once she made it to both feet, but gravity betrayed her; her eyelids were sliding shut, her shoulders sagging, head swirling.

It was only the morning, and she’d just woken up, but she felt as if she could sleep for a thousand years.

The Master sensed her forward keel, and caught her just in time. “Careful, love,” he murmured, and there was something odd about that, the lack of hostility in his voice, but she had no sense left to question it. “Bedtime.”

“Mmm—” Words were turning to mush in her mouth, mingling with the sentences they had exchanged in the car, morphing into ideas that made no sense at all.

Try clawing your own way out. You won’t get very far without me.

“Can make it on my own,” she tried, but the Master was already guiding her, up the driveway and onto the porch, down the hall. “Don’t need—”

“You really don’t know what you need.” The Master’s voice sounded in her ear, irritated, but there was no bite to it. “Or what you want.”

It wasn’t fair, that he could tell her such things, and she lacked the wits to respond. She blinked, and a spire swam before her vision, glowing in ethereal gold.

“Like you do,” she mumbled as they stumbled through her bedroom door, the Master, by this point, half-carrying her. “You don’t know anything.”

The Master laughed, the sound soft in her ear. “I know more than you think.”

He deposited her upon the bed, which seemed to stretch impossibly wide around her, the walls escaping, space expanding. She sprawled, spread-eagled, and wondered dizzily how a simple bed could contain such an impossible void. Beneath her, the sheets were cold and stiff. She felt far too small to fill the space.

“Sleep well,” the Master tossed carelessly over his shoulder, turning the moment she hit the sheets. “I won’t be there when you wake up.”

“Why not?”

The Master paused in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob. Light streamed in around him, sharpening his outline, right down to the mess of his hair. It was messy, the Doctor realized suddenly, had been for the past few weeks.

“What?”

She wasn’t sure why she asked the question. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. But her head was spiraling off into a familiar oblivion, the kind that she dreaded and yet could never escape. Her own room was nothing more than a spider’s web, and she the bug, ensnared and cocooned in nightmares, and though she’d spent seventy years going to bed alone, all of a sudden she couldn’t bear the thought.

She didn’t want to fall asleep alone. Simple, and silly as that. The Master was her own worst enemy, and the person she most truly despised, but for a fleeting moment, she would choose anything over the horrors of her mind. Even him.

“Why not?” she repeated, half-slurring the words. “Why’re you gonna leave?”

For a moment, the Master only stayed frozen in the doorway, hand gripping the doorknob. Then he sighed, shoulders sagging, and turned to face her.

“Why would you want me to stay?” His eyes, she noticed, were incredibly tired.

“Dunno,” she responded, and it was the truth. She was feeling it out in her head as she said the words, chucking out whatever worked. “It’s dark.”

The Master glanced to her shut window, the light seeping around the edges. “Open the blinds.”

“Don’t want to.” He knew what she was saying, she was sure of it. They both knew. It was practically code between them, born in childhood and carried on through the years, until it had been tossed aside and left to rust.

_“Koschei,” Theta had called out to his retreating back, blanket drawn to his chin and shins practically knocking together. “Wait—”_

_Koschei turned, draping himself against the handrail leading down the stairs. He frowned. “Theta, I’ll get in trouble.”_

_“I know.” His tongue was thick and clumsy in his mouth as he groped for the words. The blackness encroached, malevolent, but he couldn’t utter such a thing aloud._

_But what could he say?_

_“It’s dark,” he uttered at last, and prayed Koschei would understand, even if for a moment it looked like he didn’t. His brow drew together, forehead crinkling._

_“It’s dark every night.”_

_“I know.” And he didn’t want to face it alone. How could such a simple thing be so hard to get across?_

_Koschei stared at him for a long, long moment. Then, at last, he straightened, forehead smoothing, smile growing across his face. “I mean, the grown ups are too dumb to check up here anyway.”_

_He crossed the room then, and without bothering to ask permission, flopped onto the bed beside Theta, limbs flying, half the bed immediately claimed. Theta didn’t argue the territory. He only smiled, and in the corners of his eyes, felt the blackness recede._

The Master watched her for several seconds, one eyebrow quirked, as she stared at him in return and refused to back down. Then, after a long moment, he heaved a sigh and crossed the room, settling at the foot of her bed. She watched him blearily, and felt something awfully similar to a smile rise to her face.

But to show such a thing was one step too far. So she swallowed the expression and rolled upon her side, closing the gap between them.

“I still hate you,” she murmured, just in case he forgot.

“I hate you too,” he replied, but his voice held no malice. Rather, he only sounded tired. 

She opened her mouth to respond, but never made it. Instead, her eyes slid shut, and blackness swept over her, dragging her into sleep.

This time, it held no nightmares.


End file.
